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F>R|CC IS CENTS 



The Book of Cranford tillage 

(Published just once in the interests of Christopher House) 

MRS. SELDEN F. WHITE MRS. EDWIN A. DAWSON \ »„„„.„„ ,?„„.„„„ MR. JOHN M. GLENN /. „ 

Editor MRS. HARRY B. WHEELOCK , Ass0CIATE Editors mr j george m LUDLO w \ ^viso™ Committee 

The Editors of The Book of Cranford Village are very proud of the character of their advertisements. Read them, and deal with the firms represented 

(Honimte 

v ' '" PAGE 

Frontispiece Lucy Fitch Perkins 8 

At the End of the Day — Poem S. E. Kiser 9 

Dr. Butler's Lecture — Story Louise Ayres Garnett 10 

A Song of the Sea — Poem Lucy Fitch Perkins 14 

Golf Friendship David R. F organ 15 

Indian Summer — Poem Helen Coale Crew 15 

Titus — Story Robert H. Gault 16 

Ye False Prophet — Verse Irene G. Wheelock 19 

Military Preparedness Under Popular Government . . . Harrison B. Riley 18 

To a Maple Tree — Poem Alice C. D. Riley 17 

The Cuttergrass Man — Poem Wilbur D. Nesbit 20 

Blessings in Disguise — One-act Comedy Anna Jane Harnwell 21 

The Psychology of Efficiency Walter Dill Scott 25 

The Roofless Nurseries — Poem Helen Coale Crew 25 

Music in Evanston Peter Christian Lutkin 26 

Wise Saws from Our Dominie's Sermons David Hugh Jones, D. D. 28 

A Day at Christopher House Beatrice Green Morris 29 

Bird Notes Irene G. Wheelock 30 

Naming a Girl — Verse Louise Ayres Garnett 3 1 

CHILDREN'S PAGE 

The Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs — Fable . . . . , Lucy Fitch Perkins 32 

Wireless — Poem Anna M. Scott 33 

The Birds' Christmas Tree — Story Ellen Lee Wyman 33 

Puzzles 34 

LITERARY NOTES 

Among the New Books Adelaide B. McCullough 35 

Evanston Public Library Mary B. Lindsay and Nancy Corse 35 

EDITORS' EASY CHAIR 

Cranford Village — Christopher House — Evanston Hospital — Girls' League — 

Roycemore — New Clubs — War Poems 36 

Fashions and Chit-chat 39 

Program Inside Back Cover 

Cover Design — Mrs. Frank C. Dakin 
Illustrative Headings — Sarah L. Coffin 



T h 



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HOUSEHOLD ACCOUNTS 

An account with the City National Bank and a check book make the 
financial side of housekeeping a pleasure for the housewife. 

The plan of paying bills by check gives accurate and convenient record 
of each transaction. 

OFFICERS 

JOSEPH F. WARD, President WM. S. MASON, Vice-President 

CHARLES N. STEVENS, Vice-Pres. and Cashier HURD COMSTOCK, Asst. Cashier 

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THOMAS BATES 
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DAVID R. FORGAN 



WILLIAM S. MASON 
JOSEPH E. PADEN 
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CHARLES E. WARE 
CHARLES N. STEVENS 



JOSEPH F. WARD 



CITY NATIONAL BANK, Evanston, Illinois 

United States Depositary. Member Federal Reserve Board. 



The Book o f Cranford Village 




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"The goldsmith was so surprised that he fell over backwards." (Page 32) 



The Book of Cranford Village 

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j| Men hurry past him in the street §1 

m And pay him no respect at all; Wb 

j| Where those whose pride is great compete 

H He has a place obscure and small; ji 

H He serves as wisely as he may & 

H Where giants battle for success, H 

fl And at the end of every day || 

m He hastens home to happiness. §3 

m . s 

H Where traffic roars and walls are high jl 

S He earns the pittance he receives, m 

§§ And few men would be gladdened by 

jl The little triumphs he achieves. 

gjj Denied the talents of the great, 

H He hurries home, when night arrives, 

H To be a blissful potentate 

Among the ones for whom he strives. 



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H Men wonder why his look is glad, |jj 

10a Since he is poor and underpaid; m 

H Obscure, hard-pressed and cheaply clad, H 

H He goes to duty, undismayed; jpi 

11 With common gifts, he envies none <m 

H The prizes of supreme success, || 

jl For when the day's hard work is done p 

SS He hurries home to happiness. m 

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JJr. jlttikr s ^lecture 

By Louise Ayres Garnett 



The two-thirty train arrived at a station 
announcing Stillmore in frank black letters. 

Norman Butler, a young physician who had 
seized a few days' holiday from a practice not 
too exacting, descended the steps alertly, 
bearing a well-filled bag of clubs. His golfing 
spirit appraised the day, and knew that con- 
ditions were perfect for the game, cool enough 
to be bracing, and with not sufficient wind to 
divert a conscientiously directed ball. 

He failed to notice that two women were 
examining with interest the male passengers 
who had left the train — himself and a sober- 
looking man clad in a loose serge suit that 
flapped as he moved. The latter was ap- 
proached by the expectant women. 

"Dr. Butler?" the older one asked affably. 

"My name ain't Butler," responded the 
loose-appareled individual, "but I'm Doc, all 
right. I'm a thorough up-to-date A No. i Vet. 
and I can shoo away spavins and patch up 
broken-winded nags like a born wizard. I 
can make all horse complaints look like two 
cents. Have one of my cards. I'm a new- 
comer." 

Both women declined the card with reserve, 
though it bore a cordial red horseshoe in one 
corner. They turned toward the remaining 
passenger. 

This must be the one they sought, though he 
looked very different from the conventional 
Doctor of Learning. Golf clubs, a manner 
that really was somewhat debonair, and the 
carnation in his button-hole, all seemed a trifle 
unscholastic. Still, of course, it must be he. 

Again, the query, 

"Are you Dr. Butler?" 

"Yes," responded Dr. Butler, removing his 
hat, and retaining it in his hand. His smile 
was very pleasant. 

"I am Mrs. Warlock. This is Mrs. Bulby. 
We are here to see that you arrive safely at 
the Club." 

"That is extremely good of you — and Mrs. 
Cumnock," Butler responded. "I was told 
that someone would take the forlorn stranger 
in tow. It's perfect weather for golf, isn't it ? " 

Golf! — thought the bewildered ladies. And 
Mrs. Cumnock! Mrs. Bulby found herself 
replying vaguely: 

"Yes, it is nice weather. We've had many 
such days lately." 



"You're to be envied," said Butler heartily. 
"In town we have decent days, too, but we 
can't display them and get their effects as 
you do. You have a splendid course, haven't 
you? I've heard of it." 

Here both ladies experienced great relief. 
At last he was approaching the topic near their 
hearts: he was now comprehensible. 

"We have what we feel to be an excellent 
one." Mrs. Warlock, the President, spoke, 
divided between modesty and triumph. "I 
have done my best for the Club, and feel that 
the course this year has repaid me for the 
time I have devoted to it. Naturally I have 
had the able support of all the ladies of the 
Committee." 

They had entered a comfortable surrey and 
were being driven away. 

"What!" exclaimed Butler. "The Com- 
mittee is entirely composed of ladies? I 
never heard of such a thing!" 

Mrs. Warlock and Mrs. Bulby felt some 
surprise and looked it. 

Butler hastily added: 

"I think it's fine, you know. Especially 
considering the reputation of the Club. I 
understand you have established perfect links." 

Mrs. Warlock was thrown in a gentle glow. 
Dr. Butler was such a well-known scholar 
that she could have wept because of the joy 
his comment excited. Had they not devoted 
themselves to the close study of Evolution for 
many months? And he seemed to know of 
their progress, and their application to the 
discovery of truth! 

Her voice was not quite steady as she replied: 

"Yes, we have established the Links to satisfy 
our most critical judgment. From Protoplasm 
to Man," she finished in a hushed tone. 

Dr. Butler threw back his head and laughed 
heartily. 

"By Jove!" he cried, "that's not half bad," 
and he gazed with real interest at the woman 
who could make a joke with so restrained a 
countenance. The lady herself experienced 
another shock of surprise. She found the 
Doctor eccentric and disconcerting. 

At this point the driver drew rein before a 
red brick building that stood on the main 
business street of Stillmore. The ladies 
signified their wish to descend. Butler sprang 
out to assist them. 



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"Shall I wait here?" he inquired, thinking 
they were stopping to make a few purchases. 

"By no means," replied Mrs. Bulby. "Come 
with us." 

Butler cast a long glance at the open. If 
he were but free to go his way he would have 
time for eighteen holes before nightfall. He 
had understood it was a drive of only five or six 
miles, but if he had to shadow the footsteps of 
ladies bent on shopping — even though one of 
them did have a sense of humor, the golden 
afternoon would be wasted. 

He followed with outward docility through 
the doorway, up a flight of stairs, and, ere he 
had a chance to make an inquiry or effect his 
escape, found himself passing through another 
doorway into a spacious room filled with 
women. There were large women, petite 
women, pretty women, plain women — Butler 
thought desperately- — all kinds of women! 

The opening of the door announced a busy 
clatter of voices, which ceased with their 
advent. Butler was gripped by a sensation 
actually profane. Then he heard Mrs. Bulby 
saying suavely: 

"This is Dr. Butler, Mrs. Blander. Mrs. 
Blander is our corresponding secretary and 
one of our best-known representatives. She 
is never discouraged and knows no handicap." 

Dr. Butler bowed in response to Mrs. 
Blander's flaccid droop of the head. He felt 
astonished that this anaemic looking woman 
played a game that placed her on the scratch 
list. No handicap, and she looked as if she 
must be given at least thirty! 

Mrs. Blander was speaking. 

"You must not think, Dr. Butler that I am 
merely a practical exponent of the science we 
both love. I woo the -poetic side as well. I 
am a Symbolist." 

"Indeed!" murmured Butler, thinking, 
"Symbolism and Golf! What is she driving 
at?" 

Mrs. Warlock was mounting the platform 
with the conscious dignity of Presidency and 
Competency. Butler heard her say: 

"Ladies, fellow members, honored zealots in 
the Field of Progressive Research, I am filled 
with a glow of justifiable pride when I confirm 
the announcement of our town papers and 
the club bulletins, that we have with us this 
afternoon no less a personage than Dr. Butler 
— the renowned Dr. Butler of New York." 

Butler gave a crude, unmistakable start. 

"Yes, he has consented to address us to-day; 
and he said on our way from the station that 
he had heard flattering reports of our club 
and knew of the excellence of our course of 
study. I tell you this, fellow members, that 



you may be stimulated to even worthier effort. 
Dr. Butler will announce to you the subject of 
his lecture. I felt it unworthy to limit genius. 
I take pleasure in resigning the platform to our 
esteemed guest. Will he come forward?" 

An enthusiastic clapping of hands assailed 
the tortured ears of poor Butler. Dampness 
covered his sunburned forehead. 

"It's a mistake," he said eagerly, turning 
to Mrs. Bulby. "Besides, I couldn't give a 
lecture to save my life." 

"For shame," pacified Mrs. Blander, wag- 
ging a symbolic forefinger at him. "We have 
heard all about your modesty!" 

"I tell you," he said to Mrs. Bulby, "there's 
a mistake here. I'm not the one you expect." 

"Aren't you Dr. Butler of New York?" 

"I am," guiltily admitted Butler. 

"Then you can't withdraw," said Mrs. 
Bulby in an inflexible manner. "We have 
been in correspondence with you for several 
weeks; your appearance has been advertised; 
this audience expects to hear you — an au- 
dience representing Culture and Intellect. 
Besides, an admittance fee has been charged 
that we may have sufficient in the exchequer 
to cover our obligations to you. You simply 
cannot disappoint us." 

The lady so fused her Culture with Com- 
mercialism that Butler felt as if he had threat- 
ened to rob the pockets of the innocent. 

A renewed burst of applause was heard. 

"Oh, Dr. Butler," breathed a little woman 
raising to him eyes actually swimming in 
tears, "you can't have the heart to deny us 
the happiness of listening to you! I have 
thought of nothing else for weeks." 

Butler was about to provide them with data 
to convince them of his identity — that he was 
Dr. Butler — no, that he wasn't Dr. Butler — 
confound it all, he thought, what did he mean? 
He knew who he was, at any rate, and could 
prove to them in about five minutes that he 
was on his way to the Morningside Golf 
Club, to spend the week end with the Cum- 
nocks. If he could get hold of Cumnock! 

Here he encountered a shock in the form of 
a mysterious challenge from the part of his 
spirit that stood for adventure. It sent the 
impulse of the dare-devil that lurks in each 
of us scalding through his veins. Yes, he 
felt that something within was waving a flag 
at him, daring him! He turned to the little 
woman who was trembling on the perilous 
verge of tears and addressed her almost 
tenderly. 

"If you really wish so much to hear me, I 
will overcome my feelings and address you." 

The little woman clasped her hands, then 



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clapped them. That was the spark that ignited 
another blaze of applause. It swept through 
the room, fled to the calcimined ceiling, and 
made its final escape through the open windows. 

Butler, assuming a lofty look, mounted the 
steps and bowed to the patient President. 

She extended her plump hand and Butler 
bending over it pressed upon it the Kiss of 
Chivalry. Mrs. Warlock blushed as she with- 
drew, and Butler, remembering in a grateful 
flash of memory the sentiments of Mrs. Blander, 
turned informally to the audience to say: 

"Ladies, behold in me a Symbolist. You 
observed the kiss imprinted upon the white 
hand of your presiding officer. I was not a 
man — I stood for Men. She was not a woman 
— she stood for you, for Womankind. Such 
an act expressed the deference, the devotion, 
of my sex to yours." And he beamed upon 
them as if to say, "I may seem abstract, but, 
sweet creatures, I yearn to be both specific 
and concrete." 

It was a propitious beginning. Butler ob- 
served that he had his audience with him. Every 
feminine furbelow was aflutter, every heart felt 
confiding and receptive. Butler continued: 

"The subject of my lecture having been 
generously left to me, I decided to select no 
definite topic, but to talk, just talk, to you. 
It is a great treat to me, ladies, a rare privilege. 
Will you permit me to fly to you to-day from 
the sometimes wearying chains of cold Science, 
and reveal myself as I am? For know, dear 
friends, I am not always as I appear to the 
world, a delver in the mines of Proven Facts 
and Matters Material; at times I indulge my 
Soul and let it wing its flight up, up, past the 
white-capped peaks; on, on, until it is in the 
company of stars, and hymning heights, — and 
Woman." 

Each auditor fixed on him her responsive eyes, 
each felt herself to be personally addressed. 

"It has occurred to me to discuss a poem 
with you — a poem that to the superficial mind 
seems frivolous, nay, even ridiculous; but for 
the mind that penetrates beneath the outer 
crust, it holds revelations. It is a perfect 
example of symbolism in art, an art that 
disguises the truths contained in the poem so 
that the seeking soul is radiant with reward 
when he has discovered its hidden values. 
Never before have I given it to a conclave of 
people. Never before have I wished to. 
Even now I hesitate — what if I have mistaken 
— no, no, I can not have overestimated the 
temperament of my charming auditors! You 
shall know it." 

A murmur expressing relief was heard. 

The lecturer earnestly recited : 



A ROMANCE 



A Flapjack sat on the edge of a stove 

And lifted his voice in song. 
"I sigh for the grots of the mermaids' trove 
Where the night is bright with the light o' love 

And the days are twice as long." 

In tears did the Flapjack freely abound 

(His Soul was a sensitive plant), 
And they fell in the fire with a sizzling sound 
That made all the crockery juggle around 
And leap in confusion from shelf to ground 
As they sang a fanatical chant. 

Now the Flapjack loved with the whole of 
his heart 

A bottle of Ginger Pop, 
And he wooed his love with amorous art, 
He laid at her feet a beneficent tart, 
But dare not send speeding a scintillant dart 

For fear she would shatter and drop. 

The lady would never the right word say 
Till she noticed her Jack in tears. 

"My darling," she muttered, "O let us away 

To the grots where the palpitant oysters 
stay, 

And gurgling girlie-girls twitter and play 
And cut up their capers with shears." 

Her lover in bold parabolic descent 

Reached her whom he madly adored, 
And together they fled till their strength was 

near spent, 
And at last found those very same grots 

he had meant 
(So fishy, 'twas easy to tell by the scent!) 
And there they decided to board. 

But life is a tragedy, I have been told. 

Jack mooned at a mer-girl — why not? 
Which caused faithful Ginger to chatter and 

scold 
And finally bubble and burst! 'Tis the old, 
Old tale, for Jack captured to have and to 
hold 
The Mermaid who lived in the grot. 

"That is all," said Butler simply. "I hope 
you feel as I have expected." 

He seemed to regard them with a wistful 
eagerness. 

"Beautiful!" whispered women on all sides. 

"How mystical!" murmured others. "I 
wonder whose it is?" 

Then a cordial applause rang out, Butler 
bowing gracefully, and with noticeable mod- 
esty. 

"Thank you," he kept saying. "Thank 



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you. Thank you." Then he held up a hand 
to insure quiet. 

"Now that I see we are thoroughly en 
rap-port let us study a few of the lines and dwell 
upon their subtleties. Take the opening 
stanza: 

'"A Flapjack sat on the edge of a stove 
And lifted his voice in song.' 

"A Flapjack was selected because it is 
circular in form, symbolizing the unbroken 
universality of romantic emotion, and to set 
forth the truth that emotion may freely 
emanate from apparently humdrum sources. 

"He — we will accord the Flapjack in this 
discussion the dignity of gender — is seated 
upon a stove. A stove represents heat, and 
heat purifies, consuming all that is unworthy. 
The Flapjack on the center of heat suggests 
purified burning sentiment. 

" 'He sighs for the grots of the mermaids' trove 
Where the night is bright with the light o' love 
And the days are twice as long.' 

"You have the moving picture of this com- 
monplace object yearning for the beautiful, 
the poetic, the seemingly unattainable. What 
a lesson to us, my friends! 

"In the second stanza we learn that he was 
objectifying the intensity of his yearning in 
tears, manly, heartfelt tears; and so much 
power have noble drops of woe that the sound 
of their contact with the consuming fires 
inspired the environing objects to levitate 
themselves in a very ecstacy of motion, sing- 
ing the while. And think of the line, His 
Soul was a sensitive plant! That stirs the 
very cellarage of my being — it represents the 
heights of psychological democracy. No 
object is too humble to be possessed of spirit- 
ual delicacy. Mayhap his heart strings were 
a lute! 

"In the third stanza we reach the nucleus 
of the whole situation. What caused a mere 
flapjack to be assailed by such animating 
sensation?" 

He gazed questioningly at his hearers, 
tossing, as it were, this golden query in their 
midst. 

His voice lowered and vibrated with feeling. 

"It was Love," he said. "Love! Love!" 

Sighs of content arose. How true it was! 

"And who was it he loved with the whole of 
his heart? Again we see a commonplace 
object symbolizing human feeling. Note the 
subcurrent of meaning. Ginger pop, though 
superficially a beverage ordinaire, typifies 
feminine efFervescence and sparkle; also the 
fluidity of womanly instinct. He wooed her, 



he laid the sweets of existence at her cherished 
feet — 

"Passing to the fourth stanza we find the 
lady-love with alluring perversity turning deaf 
ears to the importunings of Jack till — O dwell 
upon the beauty of this! — she observed him in 
tears. Those tears washed away the bar- 
riers. Her heart flew to him; 'twas she who 
suggested their romantic flight to the sea- 
washed grottoes. 

"In the fifth stanza we see the galvanizing 
effect upon Jack. At her words he rushed to 
her in one mad leap, and, inflamed by love's 
frenzy, they fled on and on until they gained 
their haven described by Jack's inamorata. 
The poet has here introduced in the very 
heart of poetry, a touch of realism that subtly 
shadows forth disillusionment^ lying in the 
path of the future. He speaks of the fish- 
scented grots. And there, notwithstanding the 
outrage to olfactory sensibilities, they deter- 
mined to remain. Was it not the voice of Love 
that had directed their flying steps? Was not 
Love to be listened to and tried ? 

"Now we pass to the closing lines of the 
impassioned tale. Jack, in a moment of idle- 
ness, cast tender glances at a willowy mer-girl 
floating on waves celedon and gleaming. 
Detecting one of these languishing looks the 
stricken Ginger, not appreciating men are 
ever thus, — that they feel the necessity of 
deflecting occasional glances from the Center 
of Home toward the Casual Highway — felt 
the wildest ebullitions of jealous rage course 
through her veins. Finally, unable to endure 
the strain the Spiritual triumphed over the 
Physical — in an instant the crystalline body 
of Ginger lay shattered. Thus Woman 
suffered for the folly of Man. 

"Well might the tomb of the explosive Gin- 
ger read: 

" 'Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. 
Men were deceivers ever.' 

"Ah, beautiful woman, noble woman! Ah, 
man, man, inconstant man ! " 

Butler gazed at his auditors with a humid 
eye. They knew he meant — 

"Believe me, Fair Ones, I never, never 
could treat you in that way." 

Here his roving glance rested on a black- 
board. With a piece of chalk he drew a line 
and took another plunge. 

"Ladies, let us learn of emotions as expressed 
in the curve — the curve with its divergent 
manifestations. Also let us touch on the 
relativity of color. How subtle, how poetically 
intertwined, are the Inner and the Outer!" 

Whereupon he covered the board with 



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curves that represented — according to his 
exposition — everything from the spiral of 
aspiration to the hyperbola of folly. His 
demonstrations were so attended by rhetorical 
analyses and mathematical technicalities, that 
his audience passed through all the stages 
from surprise to bewilderment. 

"Now," he concluded, "I must discipline 
my feelings by denying them further utterance. 
It has been a relaxation to go with you to 
the empyrean of Poetry and Symbolism. May 
we meet again and may you occasionally 
tender me a friendly thought." 

He bowed and rosy palms were brought 
together in clamorous appreciation. While 
handkerchiefs fluttered like pennants of vic- 
tory from all quarters of the clubroom. 

As Butler descended the steps his hands 
were seized and cordially pressed by various 
admiring ladies, while the Treasurer deli- 
cately offered him a check. 

"Not that Art, and Spirit, can be recom- 
pensed," she breathed. 

"We feel the same," sighed Butler in an 
undertone, returning the check to the sensitive- 
minded lady, whose hand he pressed gently. 
"I can not, no, I cannot be remunerated for 
my charming afternoon. Really I am in 
your debt." 

The Treasurer clutched the piece of paper in 
a hazy rapture. She was about to load him 
with thanks when she was diverted by a sound 
of confusion at the door, a group of women 
separating to disclose a man flushed of face 
and fluent of gesture and speech. 

Mrs. Blander, who had an increase of rever- 
ence for Dr. Butler because of his fealty to 
Symbolic Idealism, accosted him with the 
indignant question: 

"What shall we do? This is the second time 
this person has forced himself upon us and 



made the most absurd pretensions. He insists 
he is Dr. Butler, and it was all we could do to 
prevent him interrupting your lecture." 

Here the voice of the repudiated Butler was 
heard. 

"I protest, ladies, that you have been 
hoodwinked by a clever impostor. I fell 
into a doze and—" 

But Butler, the Medical, waited for nothing 
further. If he could reach that door way and 
s-l-i-p through! Before he realized it the thing 
was done. He was in the hallway — speeding 
down the stairs on wary toes, — actually in 
the open air, hatless and jubilant! 

"Free!" he thought, swinging along in the 
abandon of release. "Blue sky overhead, 
solid ground beneath my feet, and not a woman 
— bless her! — in sight. Which way shall I 
turn?" 

Benevolent Fortune settled the matter. A 
trap drove up; a well-known voice hailed him. 

"Cumnock!" exclaimed Butler. 

"Hello, old man," said Cumnock heartily. 
"Just missed the two-thirty, but as the sta- 
tion agent said no one got off except a horse 
doctor and a lecturer, I concluded you'd 
taken the later train; was on my way to it 
now. But what are you doing here? And 
where's your hat? And I thought — who's 
that coming down the street? It's a woman 
and she appears to be signaling." 

"Petticoats!" wailed Butler, seating himself 
with a leap. "Drive on, drive as if the Old 
Nick's after you! And Cumnock," as the 
horse gallantly responded to the whip touch, 
"as you love me, ask me no questions for five 
blessed minutes. Let me look at you and 
realize you're really here. Great Christopher! 
Cumnock," he added solemnly, making another 
dash for his host's hand and shaking it vigor- 
ously, "how I do love Man!" 



By Lucy Fitch Perkins 

The white gulls are sailing, — away, away, — 
Where the gray of the dawn meets the gold of the day. 
The little waves break on the sands of the shore, — 
They beat on my heart, — ever more, — ever more! 
The gulls and the voice of the shimmering sea, 
They are calling to me, — they are calling to me! 
Come away; come away from thy sheltering isles! 
Away with the west wind, — miles upon miles, — 
Away where the stars their lonely watch keep, 
Away to the sound of deep answering deep! 
Sail out of the shallows, — past breaker and shoal, 
Alone, — unafraid, — to the Port of thy Soul! 

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(Srrif Jfrtmftsljtps. 

By David R. Forgan 



Among the many blessings with which the 
Royal and Ancient Game has enriched our 
American life there is none greater than the 
stimulus it has been to the growth of Friend- 
ship. 

Before the days of Country Clubs, it was a 
standing criticism of our strenuous life that 
there was little room in it for Friendship, and 
that such as there was, was apt to be prompted 
by business or selfish considerations. That, 
of course, was not Friendship at all, for Friend- 
ship cannot be bought or sold. Whatever 
foundation there was for such criticism, it is 
certain that Friendship, born of a common 
interest in the grand old game, and cemented 
by the opportunities for mutual understanding 
and esteem which it afFords, is now a promi- 
nent characteristic of American business and 
professional life. 

And what an addition to life it is! Without 
it, life would hardly be worth living. Aristotle, 
I think, made that same remark, and Friend- 
ship has been the theme of essay, story, and 
poem by the greatest writers, ancient and 
modern, from Plato and King David to Milton 
and Tennyson. The sentiment is, perhaps, 
now less exalted, but it is far from being lost. 
Hardheaded business men still find a place 
in their lives for Friendship, and if all secrets 
were known, many instances would be revealed 
of unselfish devotion to their friends even after 
these have passed beyond the confines of life. 

Golf Friendships, like other Friendships, 
are of different degrees of intimacy. Each 
man has, as it were, concentric circles of golf- 
friends. First, a wide circle including all 
who love the game, — then another circle, still 
large, including the members of his clubs with 
whom he is glad to play when opportunity 
offers, and finally, a small circle — a chosen 
few — with whom, by reason of a fine affinity 
of spirit, he loves to play as frequently as he 
possibly can. 

In referring to golfing affinities I am not 
thinking of mixed foursomes, so called, I pre- 
sume because a small proportion of poor golf 
is mixed with large quantities of politeness 
and apology. That is another matter! My 
point is that even between men there are close 
affinities of spirit and character, discovered 
by playing the game. 

Friendship includes mutual knowledge, un- 
derstanding, admiration and confidence; and 



in what better way do we get to know our 
friends so as to love them than through the 
character-revealing association of frequent 
games? We soon get to know the players who 
are always fair and chivalrous — keen to win, 
yet good losers — scrupulous in applying the 
strict rule to their own situation but generous 
to that of their opponent — and we take them 
to our hearts. And as the evening of life 
draws on, and the shadows begin to lengthen, 
and one by one our friends slip away from us, 
is it not as golfers that we love to remember 
them? Many of those who have gone were 
well-known men in their various spheres, but 
it is as Golf-Friends that their memories 
are most frequently recalled, and it is when 
we are tramping the green links that they still 
seem very close to us. 

So, Friends, here's to our Golf Friendships — 
may they last as long as, and even longer than, 
life itself! 



By Helen Coale Crew 

A sudden shock of silence and blue noon 

Follows the summer's vital whir; 

The leaf-strewn pool dreams deeply, scarce astir; 

The softly-hazed air 

Is quiet as a prayer; 

And yellow-latticed woodways, warmly dim, 

Murmur a drowsy hymn. 

The mighty-thighed Ulysses of the grass 

Has brought his myriad wanderings to pass, 

And starkly meets his doom 

In briar-scented gloom, 

Or where the mullein, velvety and thick, 

Uplifts its stately, flame-tipped candlestick. 

Up pushes mildly from blue hidden deeps 

The moon's slow-sailing prow; 

And Life, a ruddy fruit on golden bough, 

Hangs warm and ripe where lightly seeps 

The mellow sun through glowing leaves. 

None grieves, 

Nor anywhere is sent 

A sigh through all the tranced, sweet content. 

Pan has passed on beyond the silent hills. 

No more his swift pipe thrills 

The restless dryad and the eager oread. 

No more his wanton footstep passes 

With urgent, dancing tread 

Through lush young grasses. 

Peace! For in quiet deeps 

Demeter sleeps. 



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Wm 



By Robert H. Gault 



Titus' black face gleamed in the hot Balti- 
more sun one summer day, and his two rows of 
teeth scintillated in their hungry cavern as 
the little eight-year-old African ran in pursuit 
of a Virginia ham, in the neighborhood of the 
Lexington Street Market. The ham, bounced 
from its shelf by a sudden, hurricane-like gust, 
rolled and tumbled across the street into the 
gutter, whence Titus quickly rescued it and 
hurried with it down the street. But the cop 
was after him, and soon both he and the lad 
were in a dingy, tumble-down shack, before 
a grave and greasy old character known in 
some quarters as the "Magistrate" — a term 
suggesting majesty, and more specifically, in 
this connection, the "majesty of the law." 
All that good old Virginia smoking tobacco 
could contribute to the scene was there — not in 
any well defined locality — but it was there. 

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" The court was in 
session. The policeman was duly qualified 
to tell the ungarnished truth. The Virginia 
ham was there, mute, but full of promise to any 
prospective purchaser. The owner of the 
market from which the ham had rolled away 
but a few hours before was there to identify 
the aforesaid Virginia ham, and in due course 
he was solemnly sworn. The charge was 
read sonorously, the testimony was heard; 
there was no defense, and there remained no 
reason why sentence should not be pronounced 
against Titus, the wondering little black boy. 

"Fifteen days in jail." After such a period 
behind the bars Titus should have made just 
sufficient sacrifice q>f personal liberty to repair 
the effect of his violence against the dignity of 
the law, and the law could forget that it had 
ever been offended by one Titus. Furthermore, 
by such a time the lad should have learned a 
wholesome lesson or two relating to personal 
property rights; the hard ways of the trans- 
gressor, etc., etc. He gave his trousers a 
hitch when he heard the Magistrate say 
something about the jail, and went out with 
the officer. 

In the jail he found some tough rascals, 
little and big, but they were a jolly lot. Much 
to the liking of most of them, there was nothing 
to do but to sit around telling and hearing 
ugly tales. 

After fifteen days Titus, much wiser than 
before in certain kinds of lore, was in the street 



again. Before long he was away with some 
bananas that were his only by dint of tem- 
porary possession. Then he was in jail 
again briefly and out again, and in again and 
out again. Soon he became a shuttlecock 
between the street on the one hand and the 
jail, the reformatory, or the penitentiary on 
the other. The offended dignity of the law 
was periodically salved and satisfied by han- 
dling the lad in the traditional manner as pro- 
vided by the fathers of the constitution and 
the good old English procedure. 

And so Titus grew. A few good ladies, old 
and young, with the best instincts in the 
world, visited him and his fellow prisoners 
occasionally, distributed tracts and testaments 
among them, poured out their sacred souls in 
prayer that Providence might be moved to 
wean Titus and these others "bondaged to 
sin" from their wicked ways, to lead them to 
"forsake evil and do good," and to "flee 
from the wrath to come." How happy if 
these good women had been the only social 
factor in the life of young Titus: if there had 
been no scalawags at his elbow during all his 
periods of retreat! 

Titus was becoming well known to the 
judicial fraternity in his native city and at 
last he was promoted to a real penitentiary, 
and because he was reasonably pliable in the 
hands of his guards and not aggressively 
disinclined to yield to their restrictions and 
demands, Titus became a trusty — and a very 
reliable trusty he was, too. 

Shortly after this distinction came to him 
a fire raged in the penitentiary which threat- 
ened to destroy the whole concern. Wagons 
were hastily laden with goods to be removed 
to a place of safety. But one of these, standing 
ready with horses attached in the yard, was 
without a driver. "Here you, Titus; get up 
there!" cried an officer of the prison. "Look 
sharp now and drive this team up to X Street; 
hitch your horses there and come back." 
Something was doing now with Titus on the 
box. The wagon rumbled out as the great 
gates swung back, and up the street he drove. 
In record time he was back at the gate, hot 
foot. "Git out o' here, you nigger!" shouted 
the brass-buttoned protector of the city's 
peace, who had been detailed to guard the 
gate. Titus retreated into the street. Once 



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more he approached, only to be thrown 
back by the officer, who added a vocabulary 
that the black boy — a man he is now — had not 
found in the tracts. After a pause, he charged 
yet again that well-defended door. But you 
can't fool with a copper. A hard billy swished 
through the air and Titus, like a drunken 
jelly-fish, flopped into the gutter, which, in the 
good old days (not so old, either) in the city 
of Lord Baltimore, was a sewer. Then as 
soon as he could gather together his fragments, 
he propped himself upon his feet and splut- 
tered to the guardian of the gate, "Ah belongs 
in da." 

This is near the final phrase in the last 
chapter of Titus. He died in prison aged 38, 



thirty years after he pursued the Virginia 
ham that was making its escape from the 
Lexington Street Market. Of these thirty 
years almost twenty-five had been spent in 
prison and reformatory. In his five years 
outside he had not become adjusted to any 
phase of normal productivity. His years 
behind the bars were not inspired by his 
guardians with those occupational and educa- 
tional devices and ideals which make contri- 
bution to such adjustment. He was, how- 
ever, at the end of the chapter, admirably 
fitted to live in a cage. In a very real sense he 
"belongs in da." 

"And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man." 



By Alice C. D. Riley 

Oh, Maple-tree, thy buds with fringes gold 

In joyous burgeoning of bloom appear 
Along bare boughs, and all their sweets unfold 

To tell the world that Spring, glad Spring, is here. 
Thick-clust'ring bees their drunken revels hold 

Within thy arms, mad with the banquet spread. 
To deep satiety they drink them, overbold, 

Each dizzy drinker couched on blossom bed. 
So sing to all the all-abiding truth: 

There is no death; — there is but love and youth. 

Oh, heart o' me, why dream of death and cold? 

Why let indifference, with icy hand, 
The beauty of thy burgeoning withhold, — 

Forbid thy fragrant blossoms to expand? 
Let love, the force in every living thing, 

Its bud and beauty to the world unfold! 
And let the bees of hope on honeyed wing 

Sing me the song that love is never old! 
So sing to all the all-abiding truth: 

There is no age; — there is but love and youth. 



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By Harrison B. Riley 



The great weakness of our representative 
government is that all movements for the 
betterment of the nation must have their in- 
ception with the people. 

Our representatives do not lead; they follow. 

They do not weigh problems, decide them, 
and then ask confirmation of their judgment 
by the voters, furnishing the evidence upon 
which their decision was based, thus giving 
the voter some basis upon which he may arrive 
at a decision. 

The politician in this country keeps his ear 
to the ground, seeking early knowledge of the 
tendency of public thought but does little to 
enlighten the public mind. 

It thus becomes necessary for the voters to 
counsel together over the questions up for 
solution and strive as best they may with 
little knowledge and less skill to advise their 
leaders. 

It is with such necessary explanations that 
the following comments upon military pre- 
paredness are offered: 

It seems obvious that this question should 
neither be decided in haste nor made the mere 
slogan of a political party as a vote-getting 
device. Less danger of foreign invasion exists 
to-day than ever before. The tide of battle 
sweeps toward the east. The exhaustion of 
the warring nations is proceeding so rapidly 
that none of them will have any stomach for 
further military adventures until the horrors 
of the present war shall have been forgotten. 
The oceans still sweep our shores and our north- 
ern and southern boundaries are still devoid of 
fortifications and of danger. 

This does not mean inaction, but it does mean 
that no measures conceived in panic, excite- 
ment, or wrath should be hastily adopted. 

Military preparation requires persistent 
application to a carefully devised plan ex- 
tending over all the years to come. 

The knowledge we now have obtained 
through the unhappy experience abroad proves 
beyond doubt that a small standing army is not 
of the slightest value except in the training of 
officers. 

Our own experience in the Civil War confirms 
that conclusion. 

It is also true that a standing army of such 
proportions as would, without other aid, be 
able to maintain a defense against any first- 



class power could not be maintained at any 
reasonable expense. 

It follows therefore that the body of an 
adequate army for our defense must be raised 
from the people at the time danger of invasion 
arises. 

To be prepared then requires at least three 
things, two of which are easy of accomplish- 
ment: 

First: A body of trained officers adequate 
to command any army we are likely to raise. 

Second: A supply of arms and ammunition 
and other war material sufficient to carry the 
country through the first six months of war 
and until our manufactories can be readjusted 
to produce our needs. 

Third: A trained citizenry, not called out 
over night, but prepared in advance for the 
highest duty ever imposed upon mankind. 

The first two proposals furnish no substantial 
difficulty. The educational facilities of the 
government are adequate in quality and can 
be extended indefinitely by the addition of 
other schools of similar grade with West 
Point. 

Many details would necessarily need con- 
sideration, such as a reduction in required 
term of graduates' service and the necessary 
army enlistments to employ the additional 
officers. These problems present no great 
difficulties, however. 

The present time is inopportune for laying 
aside the proposed supply of munitions because 
of the price. However, a time will come at 
the end of the present war when facilities will 
be at the maximum and price at the minimum, 
when our requirements can be economically 
met. 

The proposal for a sufficient training of our 
citizens to enable them in truth to rise over 
night for the defense of our country and be at 
all effective, presents a grave problem. 

It is axiomatic that the citizen owes this 
duty to the country. 

A volunteer system is unfair and insufficient 
in that it does not distribute the burden of 
citizenship equally and frequently results in 
sending the best of our sons to the front, leaving 
the less desirable at home to wax fat on con- 
tracts for supplies. 

A system of compulsory service ending 
before a man attains the age of twenty-one, 



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connected with his schooling, if possible, but 
in any event performed as a condition pre- 
cedent to voting as a citizen must be adopted. 
Of course, exemptions for lack of physical 
and mental qualifications must be made, but 
the general principle should be adopted that 
no one who is physically or mentally qualified 
shall become a citizen until he has fitted him- 
self for the duties of that state. 

Much could be written as to our naval 
program, but space forbids mention of more 



than one point which applies as well to military 
affairs. 

An inferior force at the point of contact is 
as bad as no force. A navy weaker by one 
gun than any navy likely to attack us is no 
defense whatsoever. 

Military and naval preponderance at the 
point of attack is the object to be attained. 
We as a nation have the men and means at 
hand. We should so adapt our resources as 
to produce this result. 




By Irene G. Wheelock 

A fat little fluff of a frivolous bird 

Sang gayly of sunshine and cheer, 

And a woman who listened was sure that she heard 

"Fair weather! Fair weather, my dear!" 

So she wore her new bonnet, 

Her very best bonnet, 

With laces and ribbons so sheer; 

But — it rained and it blew, 

It froze and il snew 

All over that bonnet so gay. 

And the bad little bird, 

Saying never a word, 

Just whistled and fluttered away. 

Now the moral is this, — 
You who morals ne'er miss, — 
It is truly absurd 
To believe in a bird; 
'Tis a much wiser plan 
To put faith in a man 
Who writes for the papers 
About weather capers; 
For when he says "Fair" 
There'll be snow in the air, 
And when he says "Rain" 
'Twill be sunshine again; 
And so, reading with care, 
You always may know 
Just which bonnet to wear. 

[19] 




Wtyt (fttfttajra** ^Simi 



By Wilbur D. Nesbit 

The Cuttergrass Man, he 'tends our yard 
An' chews tobacker awful hard, 
An' hitches his suspender up 
An' say he's go' bring me a pup 
Because he knows a man 'at's got 
More pups! — he's got an awful lot. 

The Cuttergrass Man, he mops his head 

An' his neck it gets awful red, 

An' sometimes he say: "Bless me! Whoo 

I wisht this job o' mine wuz through!" 

An' then he sets down by a tree 

An' spits an' kills a bummlebee. 

The Cuttergrass Man he don't wear clo'es 

Like you an' me — an' what d'you s'pose! — 

He's got blue pants on that he calls 

His ol' reli'ble overalls! 

An' one suspender's all he's got 

An' it's all tied up in a knot. 

The Cuttergrass Man he say for me 

To keep as still as I can be 

An' not to fool with things, 'cause why 

I'd cut my fingers off an' die! 

So I set on our steps, an' he 

Sometimes he helps me climb our tree. 

The Cuttergrass Man he say for me 

To study at my A, B, C, 

An' go to school an' learn a lot 

An' not do like him — he forgot! 

I say I would an' I told him 

I want my pup to be name' Jim. 





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A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 
By Anna Jane Harnwell 



CHARACTERS 

Miss Dora Bennett, an inmate. 
Miss Milly Jones, a would-be inmate. 
Mrs. Carter, another inmate. 



Miss Jordan, the matron. 
Lorenzo Hines, the hero. 
John, who says nothing. 



Scene. — Interior of an Old Ladies' Home 
on a winter afternoon. The scene is the bed- 
room of Miss Dora Bennett, one of the inmates. 
In middle of back is a closed single door. On 
either side of the door are two wash-stands 
with pitcher, bowl, and towels. Next to these 
with heads against the back wall are two single 
iron beds. On other side of beds near corner 
of room are two small tables, with night lights 
or candles and matches on them. Against 
the side wall and opposite each other are two 
bureaus with mirrors and drawers. Beside 
these, nearer front, are two straight chairs. 
A fireplace is supposed to be in middle of 
stage in front of footlights. A hearth plate, 
fire irons and coal scuttle indicate position 
of fireplace. On either side of fireplace is a 
comfortable rocking chair. The whole room 
is comfortable with the bare furniture of a 
boarding-house double room. An old engrav- 
ing or two hangs on the walls. A chest 
covered with dark denim is at the foot of each 
bed. When the curtain rises Miss Bennett is 
discovered sitting in the rocker at left of 
fireplace. She has a crutch beside her, show- 
ing she is lame, with which she pokes the fire 
from time to time. She is a grim, raw-boned 
woman, with hair parted smoothly on either 
side of her forehead. Her hair is iron-grey and 
her face is wrinkled. She wears spectacles. 
After poking the fire she leans back in her chair, 
a discontented expression on her face. A 
knock is heard. 

Miss Bennett: Come in. (Door opens and 
Mrs. Carter, a thin little old woman, pops 
her head in. She has snow-white hair, parted 
as is Miss Bennett's and drawn into a tight 
little knot at the back of her head.) 

Mrs. Carter: Would you like for me to 
bring my knittin' and set a while ? 

Miss Bennett: Come in, Mrs. Carter, come 
in; I should say I would. You're as welcome 
as a bug to a chicken. I was just wishin' 
that I had some one here to chat with. (Mrs. 
Carter comes in, takes the other rocker, and 
gets out her knitting.) I do wish I could knit. 



But sewin' was all I ever did and now my 
eyes have give out so I can't do that. Ex- 
cept for glancin' at a book or paper I just 
set here and hold my hands the whole day. 
Land! I can remember when I was dressmakin' 
for my livin' I thought it'd be a fine thing to set 
and do nothin' but I tell you it ain't what it's 
cracked up to be. I never did care much 
for readin'. They use such long words that 
by the time I've got 'em spelled out, I've sort 
o' lost interest in what they're sayin'. How've 
you been, Mrs. Carter? 

Mrs. Carter {rocking) : Pretty good. I tell 
you I feel mighty lucky when I hear old 
Mis' Nelson, in the room next to mine, groanin' 
there with her rheumatism. To think o' 
all she's been through! Husband and two 
children killed in a cyclone — blown to death, 
you might say — then her eye bein' put out 
en havin' to wear a glass one — it don't match 
neither, I s'pose blue ones must be cheaper 
than brown ones — -and then to be all doubled 
up with rheumatism. Yesterday she says 
she had the last straw when she dropped her 
false teeth out the window, when she was 
lookin' out to see the fire engine. She got 'em 
back, but two teeth was broke off*. I told 
her that if it was true that whom the Lord 
loveth He chasteneth, He certainly had a crush 
on her. 

(A knock.) 

Miss Bennett: I wonder who that is. Come 
in! (Enter matron, a wholesome, good-look- 
ing woman, neatly dressed in a black close- 
fitting gown, with white collar and cuff's.) 

Miss Jordan: Good afternoon! How cosy 
you two look! Well, Miss Bennett, I'm afraid 
I have some bad news for you. You'll not be 
able to have this room to yourself any longer. 
I admitted another guest this morning, and 
this is the only extra bed we have in the house. 

Miss Bennett {sourly) : Oh, I knew it'd come, 
Miss Jordan, and I'm thankful for the comfort 
I've had. (Brightening a little.) P'raps now 
that I ain't in so much pain it'll not be so bad 
to have some one else here. I do hope she's 
not one o' your slovenly kind. 



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Miss Jordan: She comes with good recom- 
mendations and she is a very nice-looking old 
lady. I think you'll like her. 

Miss Bennett: Well — I don't go much by 
looks. It's deeds 's I judge folks by. 

Mrs. Carter: 'Tain't so bad ef they ain't 
crochety. The first one I ever had was 
crochety. I had a terrible time with her, but 
I really enjoy Mis' Beggs, when she ain't 
cryin'. She's terrible mournful. 

Miss Jordan: You can't accuse Miss Jones 
of that. She seems like a very cheery soul. 
She comes from a little town out in Iowa where 
she has been living with a niece, I believe. 
The niece died but left enough money to Miss 
Jones so she could come here to live. 

Miss Bennett {sharply): What did you 
say her name was ? 

Miss Jordan: Jones; I don't remember 
the first name, but she is unmarried. I 
remember she said Miss. 

Miss Bennett: Humph! I ain't got any 
pleasant recollections with that name, but 
I suppose she ain't to blame for that. 'Tain't 
likely it's any relation, for I never knew any 
one from Iowy. 

Miss Jordan: She's gone for her trunk, 
and as soon as she comes I'll bring her up and 
introduce you. (Exits.) 

Miss Bennett {musingly): Jones, Jones; 
I'm sorry she's named that. It'll all the 
time remind me. Do you know if it hadn't 
been for a woman named Jones, I'd never be 
in any home for aged females! 

Mrs. Carter: How's that? 

Miss Bennett: It's a long story, but if it 
warn't for Milly Jones I'd likely be in a 
handsome home o' my own, with children and 
money and a automobile. Yes, ma'm! She 
was my best friend too. But I paid her back. 
If I didn't get 'em, neither did she. 

Mrs. Carter: You don't say? What hap- 
pened ? Did she steal from you ? 

Miss Bennett: Well, in a way, she tried 
to, but I circumvented her. We was girls 
together, Milly Jones and me, down in Wal- 
tham Center where we was both born and raised, 
and we was always as thick as three in a bed, 
till Lorenzo Hines come to town. He was a 
handsome fellow as you ever see, and as soon 
as him and me laid eyes on one another we was 
in love. He began to court me and of course 
Milly came over when he was there and as 
soon as she saw him she was crazy about him 
too. So nothing would do but she must try 
and get him away from me. How that girl 
acted! She lived right across the street 
from me and she used to watch when he was 
coming and set on her gate and talk to him and 



ask him in, till first thing I knew he was goin' 
to see her and not me at all. We was almost 
engaged when she began her flirtin' — the cat! — 
and when I saw he didn't care any more for me 
I was pretty nigh crazy. I never knew quite 
how she got him but it must ha' been by lies 
and flattery. You see, he was a city fellow; just 
sent down by some rich firm in Chicago to 
look after some oil wells or something, and he 
was rich and mighty fascinatin'. I 'bout 
cried my eyes out when I saw how things 
were going, and I see him goin' to see her every 
night. 

Mrs. Carter: What did he say? 

Miss Bennett: Say! He didn't say nothin'. 
He just stopped comin'. When I met him 
on the street, he was as polite as could be, but 
just polite — which just breaks a girl's heart, 
when a man's been tender like. Then one o' 
the boys told me his firm had sent for him to 
come back. The night before he went, I'll 
never forget. I saw him goin' to Milly's and I 
sat by my gate till midnight, when he come out, 
and I saw him kissin' her— it was bright 
moonlight— and saying soft things to her, and 
I just wanted to go over and tear her eyes out. 
I cried all night, I remember, and then I got 
to thinkin' and thinkin' how I could get even. 
Finally some one told me Milly had a new 
ring; that settled me. I s'pose I did wrong, 
but I determined if I didn't have him she 
shouldn't. I got his address from one of the 
boys who knew the name of his firm, and I 
wrote him a letter and told him Milly was a 
flirt, and she was carryin' on with two or three 
fellows as soon as he left town, and I signed it 
"Your well-wisher." 

Mrs. Carter: Did he know who wrote it ? 

Miss Bennett: No; I don't suppose so. 
He hadn't ever seen my writin', so it might 
'a' been any one in our town. 

Mrs. Carter: What did he do? Did it 
break it off"? 

Miss Bennett: I never rightly knew just 
what happened. Only I noticed the postman 
stopped comin' to Milly's and she got to lookin' 
pretty sad like. So I always thought that I 
broke it up. 

Mrs. Carter: Did she ever say anything 
about it? 

Miss Bennett: Not likely. I'd be the last 
person she'd speak to. You see, we hadn't 
spoken for some time before he left. I told 
her what I thought of her and after that 
there weren't no more to say, so it was the end 
so far as I was concerned. But one of the 
other girls told me Hines stopped writin' to 
her and that she was all broke up over it. Her 
father sold his place soon after that and they 



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moved away, so I never heard any more of 
her. But I heard that Hines was on the road 
to bein' a rich man, and if she'd left him 
alone I'd 'a' been his wife and not rottin' 
out my days in an old people's home. 

Mrs. Carter: Of course it might ha' been 
so in your case, but I didn't find that marriage 
kept me out o' here. Carter was a trouble 
from first to last, and I'd be blessin' any one 
now who had got him away from me. I 
wouldn't 'a' wished him on my worst enemy. 
I tell you, Miss Bennett, there's more cases 
where the woman 'd 'a' been happier if she'd 
been left to be an old maid, than there is o' 
old maids that'd 'a' been better off married. 
You see, after all you're only speakin' o' what 
you think would 'a' been. But I lived fifteen 
years with Carter. 

Miss Bennett: That may be, Mrs. Carter, but 
Hines weren't no such man. I haven't seen him 
since, but I know then he was rich. And he had 
a fine disposition. Then I'd 'a' had children. 

Mrs. Carter: You can't be certain o' that, 
Miss Bennett, though I will say children do 
help you to put up with a man. I got three 
children, all boys, but I can't abide their 
wives; so the boys pay for me livin' here, which 
suits better all round. 

Miss Bennett: I know my children'd never 
been like that. They'd 'a' been like Hines, 
and I'd 'a' had a home o' my own and asked 
nothin' o' no one. 

Mrs. Carter: Maybe, maybe, Miss Bennett. 
My three boys are mostly like their father 
too, that's the trouble. They aren't so bad, 
but they certainly were plum cracked when 
it came to pickin' out wives, seems to me. 
(A knock.) That's Miss Jordan now and the 
new boarder, so I'll run along. 

(Enter Miss Jordan and Miss Jones. The 
latter is a dumpy little woman, with a shawl 
on and a thick veil over her face and bonnet. 
When she throws back the veil one sees traces 
of beauty in her round wrinkled face framed 
in white fuzzy hair.) 

Miss Jordan: Don't let us hurry you, Mrs. 
Carter. I want you to meet our new guest, 
Miss Jones. (They shake hands and Mrs. 
Carter goes toward door.) 

Mrs. Carter: How'd do? Oh, I was just 
startin'. Good afternoon, Miss Bennett. 

Miss Jordan: Miss Jones, Miss Bennett. 
(Miss Bennett grimly extends a bony hand 
which Miss Jones comes and shakes gingerly.) 
Miss Bennett will show you where to put your 
things and which places belong to you. I'll 
send your trunk up shortly. Our regular 
second man is ill, so I've hired a new man to 
help John. He was such a poor old thing and 



needed the work so that I took him on tem- 
porarily, but I'll have to ask you all to be 
patient with him and show him just how you 
like things done. The poor old fellow came 
begging for work and he is a perfect wreck 
from drink and dissipation, but he was so 
needy that I hadn't the heart to refuse him a 
chance. I wanted to explain about him so 
you'd understand and overlook his appearance. 

Miss Bennett: You're always doin' some- 
thin' like that, Miss Jordan. Helpin' the 
poor. I'll show him. 

Miss Jordan: I knew you would, Miss 
Bennett. I'll run along now. I'll be back 
when they bring up the trunk. (Exits.) 

Miss Bennett: You can have that chest 
o' drawers, Miss Jones, and those are your 
hooks. If there are any o' my things there, 
I'll take 'em out when I get up. You see, 
I'm lame and I can't get about much. (Dur- 
ing this speech, Miss Jones, standing near the 
right-hand bed, where she is laying off her 
wraps, suddenly recognizes the voice, and 
with her veil thrown back, turns and scruti- 
nizes the speaker, who is unconscious of any 
change; then she exclaims: 

Miss Jones: For Heaven's sake! Dora 
Bennett! 

Miss Bennett {peering at her, then sinks back 
aghast): Milly Jones! Humph! Well, you 
needn't be in any hurry to put away your 
things, for you and me ain't goin' to occupy no 
room together if I have to sleep in the cellar! 

Miss Jones: That's so! But it's not for 
you to say, Dora Bennett. If you hadn't 
separated me from my future husband with 
your sneakin', lyin' letter, I'd 'a' been a com- 
fortable rich woman and never seen the inside 
o' such a place as this. I wonder you dare to 
speak to me, whose life you ruined! 

Miss Bennett: Hah! You! Whose was he 
first, I'd like to know? If it hadn't 'a been for 
your forward ways, Miss, I'd 'a' been the one 
that wouldn't 'a' been here. You can put 
your bonnet right on again. 

Miss Jones: Yes, I will, but not because 
you tell me to. When I tell that matron 
what a sneak and underhand woman you are, 
writin' unsigned letters and ruinin' honest 
girls' characters, I guess you'll be the one to 
be put out o' a respectable home. 

Miss Bennett: You do, do you? Well, you've 
got another think comin'. It ain't ten minutes 
sence I finished tellin' all about you and how it's 
all owin' to you that I ever came to this place. 

Miss Jones {beginning to cry): You've no 
right to blame me. I couldn't help it if he 
fell in love with me. I didn't drag him away 
by force. He come because he loved me — 



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Miss Bennett: You cat, you underhanded — 
(Just here the door opens and Miss Jordan 
enters.) 

Miss Jordan: Ladies! What's the matter? 

Miss Bennett: The matter is, Miss Jordan, 
that I'll sleep in the cellar before I'll room with 
this woman. If it hadn't 'a' been for her behavior 
I'd never 'a' been here. And she knows it. 

Miss Jones {who is now sitting in the other 
rocker and crying) : And I'll go to the poor- 
house rather than room with her. I'd be 
afraid for my life. 

Miss Jordan: I'm very sorry. Don't feel 
so badly, Miss Jones. Miss Bennett, I'll 
try and adjust things so that Miss Jones can 
be put in with some one else. I feel sure that 
some of the others will exchange. (Two 
men appear in hall at open door. One is the 
regular man-of-all-work, the other is an old 
blear-eyed individual, with a scrubby grey 
beard. He shows plainly the marks of dissi- 
pation as well as age. He is dressed in 
ragged clothes, which he wears with a slight 
swagger, however.) 

Miss Jordan: Oh, here you are, John! 
You needn't bring the trunk in here after all; 
just set it down outside till we decide where 
Miss Jones will stay. Hines, you may bring 
in the coal, and when you are through in here, 
go to room 21. (To the women): I'll be 
back as soon as I can arrange things. (Exits. 
Hines enters with scuttle of coal and approaches 
the fire. Miss Bennett has regarded him 
with interest ever since she caught his name.) 

Miss Bennett: Did she call you Hines? 

Hines (sets down his scuttle and kneels down 
in front of the fireplace between the two women) : 
Huh? Yes, lady; Hines is my name. There 
was a time when I was proud of it, too. But 
it hasn't brought me any luck. I've had my 
troubles, I can tell you. Buried two wives, 
fine women too, both of them, but awful 
tempers. Bertha was the first; she died o' 
twins. Children never seemed to agree with 
her. Then I had Mary; we got along pretty 
well till one day, when I'd a drop too much, 
she irritated me so that I just tapped her on 
the head, and she got in the police, and while 
I was at the station she left me and refused 
to come back. The children, four of them, 
went with her. Bertha's children too. 

Miss Bennett: You mean you were arrested 
for beating your wife ? 

Hines: Oh, that wasn't anything. I were 
used to the law, so to speak. I'd done time 
seven years for writing another man's name 
to a check, when I was hard up. And now 
I've come to this — fetchin' coal for a lot o' 
fussy old females! 



Miss Jones (who has stopped crying and 
been listening with horror to his tale) : Hines — 
what — what was your first name? 

Hines: Lorenzo, ma'm; a fine name, too. 
Could either o' you ladies — (They both recoil 
from him in horror.) 

Miss Bennett: Was you ever in Waltham 
Center? 

Hines: Hey? Waltham Center? Let me 
see; I been so many places I forget. What 
sort o' place was it? 

Miss Jones (timidly) : Did you know Milly 
Jones there? 

Hines: Oh, yes, mighty pretty girl, Milly. 
Crazy about me. I thought I'd never shake 
her off". I remember, I got a letter o' some 
sort and that gave me an excuse to get rid o' 
her. There was a girl named Bennett there 
too. She was mighty fond o' me. I always 
had a way with the women. Is this all? As 
I was sayin', if either o' you ladies could spare 
a trifle — (Both draw away from him.) All 
right; don't say I asked you. Only you 
seemed so interested — I always had a way 
with women — all right, so long. (Takes 
scuttle, now empty, as he has emptied its con- 
tents into the one that was in the room, and 
backs out. The two women sit and look at 
each other in silence for a moment; then Miss 
Bennett leans forward.) 

Miss Bennett: Milly, how did you know 
I wrote that letter? 

Miss Jones: Lorenzo sent it back to me, 
with a line sayin' that that would explain 
why I wouldn't hear from him again. I 
recognized your handwritin' and I wrote and 
told him you wrote it and you was just jealous, 
but he sent it back unopened. The dreadful 
creature! Suppose I'd 'a' married him! 

Miss Bennett: Milly, I never thought to 
say this, but I thank you for interferin' and 
sparin' me a life with that — that — 

Miss Jones: Dora, don't say no more. 
That letter was an inspiration from Provi- 
dence. Seven years in the penitentiary! 

Miss Bennett: Bein' knocked down when 
he was drunk! Milly, I think you'll find it real 
pleasant here. There's worse places than an 
old ladies' home. Take off your bonnet and 
tell me about your folks. 

Miss Jones: Thank you, Dora, you're real 
kind. (Takes off bonnet.) It'll be just like 
old times. (Sits again.) You see after we left 
the Center we went to Montana — (As they 
sit talking Miss Jordan opens the door and is 
about to speak when she sees the two old ladies 
in close conversation. She smiles, and softly 
closes the door.) 

CURTAIN 



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By Walter Dill Scott 



The chief aim of mankind in America to- 
day is not dollars but efficiency. But since the 
acquisition of money is frequently the only 
visible indication of efficiency, it is not strange 
that the American is sometimes accused of 
making wealth his single aim. 

In the advance of the fine and the industrial 
arts, theory occasionally precedes practice, but 
ordinarily the practice keeps ahead of the 
theory. The most rapid advance is attain- 
able only when the two keep well abreast and 
alternate in leadership. The efficiency move- 
ment has, till the present time, been the 
result of practice rather than of theory. 
When a theoretical foundation is sought 
which might explain the movement, the 
search has usually led no farther than to a for- 
mulation of the theory of standardization. 
The search for efficiency and the search for 
the one best method for accomplishing each 
task are thought to be identical. The speed at 
which the machine should be run, the se- 
quence of movements in performing the task, 
the scientific standardization of the minutest 
parts of every process — these are the tasks 
emphasized by most men who have attempted 
to reduce efficiency to its theoretical basis. 
There is no denying the benefit of standardiza- 
tion; but its weakness is that, when men be- 
come enamored of its benefits, the employees 
are reduced to mere machines and individual 
initiative is in danger of becoming dwarfed. 

In the attempt to secure a theoretical founda- 
tion for efficiency, certain intelligent people 
confuse efficiency with system. But there is 
always the danger that system will degenerate 
into red tape and bureaucracy and that it will 
have a deadening effect on personal initiative 
and personal enthusiasm. 

The theory of efficiency in some lands and in 
some ages may be based largely on stan- 
dardization and on system, but in America, 
at the present time, the theory of efficiency 
must include the factor of pleasure — pleasure 
as the present condition of the worker. 

The effects of extreme pleasure and of 
extreme displeasure are readily observed. 
When we are greatly pleased, the bodily 
changes are immediate and are called "laugh- 
ing"; the corresponding effect of displeasure 
is "crying." In both laughing and weeping, 
the bodily changes are by no means limited to 



the facial changes and the audible sounds, but 
equally striking changes take place in the dif- 
ferent activities of the body. Most of the 
bodily changes due to pleasure or displeasure 
are never detected by the average man. But 
various scientific instruments have discovered 
numerous changes in the human organism as 
accompaniments of these emotions, whether 
mild or extreme. The changes are not limited 
to the action of circulation, digestion, and 
respiration, but extend as well even to the 
action of the glands and tissues of the body. 
The stimulating, invigorating effects of 
pleasure and the depressing, exhausting effects 
of displeasure have been observed not only in 
the laboratory but in all places where people 
exert themselves strenuously. The business 
man finds that he is most exhausted not by 
work, but by worry. It is the distractions, 
the disappointments, the failures, that sap the 
vitality. The accomplishments, the con- 
tinuous application to the task, the successes 
of the day, recuperate and stimulate him. 
The distress of defeat exhausts and depletes; 
the pleasure of success sustains and recuperates. 



©{p Roofless ffiwcstttez 

By Helen Coale Crew 

Christ's Mother's heart is bruised sore, and 
torn. 

cradle, crieth she, 

That should of all things human sacred be! 
nurseries broken through and riven, 
Roofless, and lying bare to heaven! 
How shall the stars look down and not despair 
To see you living ravished there, 
Ye treasure-houses of humanity! 
How shall the moon, that nightly did explore 
With silver fingers every pillow o'er, 
Let fall white dreams where desolations lie! 
tenant frail, unhoused in the brute night, 
Piteous and inarticulate with fright, 
Searching with timid hands to find thy bed, 
Thou, too, . . . thou hast not where to lay thy 
head! 



Aye, Christ's Mother is war-worn. 



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By Peter Christian Lutkin 
Dean of Music, Northwestern University. 



It is a well-known fact in educational circles 
that the relation of the study of music to higher 
education has been more thoroughly worked 
out at Northwestern University than in any 
other similar institution in the land. Each 
year an increasing number of music students 
come to Evanston from the extreme East, as 
they find advantages offered here that are not 
duplicated elsewhere. This fact, however, is 
not as well known in Evanston as it should be. 

To the professional musicians who have been 
brought here to build up the School of Music 
of the University is due in large measure the 
present enviable position that Evanston now 
occupies upon the musical map of America. 
Our greatest musical distinction in the public 
eye is our great Spring Musical Festival, but 
our School of Music, reaching not only to all 
parts of the United States, but to foreign 
countries as well, is a far more potent influence 
in the upbuilding of real musical culture. 
With the rehabilitation of music in the Uni- 
versity in 1891, under the charge of the 
writer, came an endeavor to establish choral 
activities. The University Choral Society 
was formed under the leadership of Professor 
James Taft Hatfield. Its membership was con- 
fined to students. On April 23, 1893, Haydn's 
"Creation" was given with organ accompani- 
ment and with local soloists and the public paid 
but little attention to the effort. After two 
years the attempt was abandoned, as the men 
students were too young and inexperienced to 
satisfactorily fill the tenor and bass parts. 

In the fall of 1894 under the initiative of Mr. 
John R. Lindgren a Maennerchor was formed 
at the Evanston Country Club with Mr. 
Albert McCarroll as musical director. On Mr. 
McCarroll's resignation the writer became 
conductor. The material in the Club was un- 
usually fine and a most successful concert was 
given November 30, 1894, at the Country Club. 
On December 4th, following, the concert was 
repeated at the Congregational Church for 
the general public. In the meantime the 
Maennerchor had been formally organized as 
the Evanston Musical Club with Mr. Lindgren 
as president. Soon after, a ladies' auxiliary 
chorus was formed which, like the Maennerchor, 
was composed of unusually fine voices. The 
ladies gave their first concert at the Club 



House February 12, 1895. On February 19th 
they joined the Maennerchor in a concert at 
the Congregational Church with a total force 
of fifty-four singers. The season closed on 
May 6th, giving Sullivan's "The Prodigal 
Son" with home singers as soloists and with 
organ accompaniment. The next season the first 
performance of Handel's "Messiah" was given 
in December, and Mendelssohn's "Elijah" in 
April. In addition the Maennerchor gave 
a concert at the church and the Ladies' 
Auxiliary Chorus one at the Country Club. 

The following season the men's and women's 
choruses as separate entities were given up as 
an oratorio society of mixed voices and a 
regular scheme of concerts was permanently 
adopted. This scheme consisted of the Mes- 
siah with orchestra in December, a miscellane- 
ous program in February, and a second oratorio 
concert with orchestra in April. As the Club 
had considerably increased in active members 
the concerts were transferred to the First 
Methodist Church, where they were continued 
until the old edifice was torn down. 

The Evanston Musical Club is now in its 
twenty-second year and has a long list of no- 
table works performed to its credit. It has 
been particularly enterprising in giving new 
works, either being the first or among the first to 
introduce the choral compositions of Elgar, 
Coleridge-Taylor, Cesar Franck, Hubert Bath, 
and C. F. Clutsam. It has also resurrected 
fine but comparatively unknown works by 
Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn. 

But this notable list of attainments has only 
been accomplished under stress of hard work 
and self-sacrificing devotion to the cause. 
The American public has not yet risen to a 
proper appreciation of choral music. The 
successive presidents of the Club, Messrs. J. R. 
Lindgren, W. F. Hypes, F. W. Smith, C. L. 
Jenks, C. N. Stevens, H. B. Wyeth, W. B. 
Smith, and G. I. Montgomery, together with a 
few other ardent music lovers, have worked 
against many discouragements, principally 
financial. Without their perseverance and 
persistence the festivals would not have been 
possible. The Club was in a fairly prosperous 
condition prior to the inception of the Festival, 
but the larger event has overshadowed the 
smaller. Nevertheless the active members of 



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the Evanston Musical Club continue to be the 
backbone of the Festival chorus, and their efforts 
should be supported generously if for no other 
reason than to make our Festivals more effective. 

In the fall of 1908 a group of about twenty 
interested people at the call of Mr. John R. 
Lindgren and Mrs. James A. Patten met at 
the residence of the latter to discuss the 
feasibility of great Festivals being given in 
Evanston, the possibility of which was sug- 
gested to Mr. Lindgren by the erection of the 
University Gymnasium. A second meeting 
resulted in a call for guarantors for such an 
ambitious scheme, and some 120 citizens 
pledged each one hundred dollars in its support. 
The success of the seven Festivals since given 
is so well known that it needs no amplification 
here. They have given to Evanston a wide- 
spread prominence and they rank in impor- 
tance with the long-established festivals of 
Worcester and Cincinnati. In picturesqueness 
and charm of setting they are quite unrivaled. 
The fact that some two thousand of our young 
people are brought in contact with music in a 
large way each year is alone a sufficient war- 
rant for their maintenance. It is worthy of 
note that all the ex-presidents of the Evanston 
Musical Club with one exception are on the 
directorate of the North Shore Festival Asso- 
ciation. Two of them, Mrs. W. F. Hypes and 
Mr. C. L. Jenks, have been presidents of the 
Festival Association and their sound and suc- 
cessful policies have been most ably continued 
by the present incumbent, Mr. Frank S. Shaw. 

Since the beginning of the Symphony 
Orchestra Concerts in Chicago twenty-five 
years ago, a coterie of devoted music lovers 
have assembled every Thursday morning to 
study the programs of the approaching con- 
cert. This analytical study has been done in a 
very systematic and thorough way and has 
developed in our midst among a limited cir- 
cle of gifted amateurs, a quite extraordinary 
knowledge of orchestral music. It is safe to say 
that out of the vast number who attend the sym- 
phony concerts there are none more musically ap- 
preciative than the Evanston contingent who 
comprise this "Thomas Class," as it is known. 

Unique in its work and in its aims is the 
A Cappella Choir of the University. Its mis- 
sion is to bring to public knowledge the wealth 
of choral music which is intended to be per- 
formed without accompaniment of any kind. 
Music dating from the fifth to the twentieth 
centuries is on the repertoire of the Choir. 
Attention is divided about equally between 
sacred and secular music and the endeavor is 
to perform the same with the greatest possible 
purity of tone and intonation and to adequately 



interpret the intentions of the various com- 
posers. Every year the Choir gives concerts 
at Mandel Hall, University of Chicago, at Lake 
Forest College, at Hull House, and before vari- 
ous private clubs and associations. The Choir 
consists of thirty selected voices and it is the 
ambition of every vocal student in the School 
of Music to "make A Cappella." 

The School of Music Symphony Orchestra 
of seventy-five members has developed in 
recent years into an institution in which the 
community may take a just pride. About 
one half of the members are students, while the 
remaining half draws upon talented amateurs 
all along the North Shore. Three free concerts 
are given to the Evanston public each season 
and the programs are made up of the finest 
examples of orchestral music. Under the guid- 
ing and compelling hand of Professor Harold 
Knapp the orchestra has attained an astonish- 
ing degree of ability for an amateur organiza- 
tion and its equal can only be found in New 
York or Boston. 

To Professor Knapp is also due the credit for 
giving us chamber music concerts uninter- 
ruptedly for nearly twenty-five years. This 
refined art, however, only appeals to the cul- 
tured few. Upwards of one hundred and 
twenty-five string duos, trios, quartettes, 
quintettes, sextettes, piano duos, trios, quar- 
tettes, and quintettes, as well as compositions 
for various wind instruments with and without 
piano have been given. It is doubtful if this 
record can be duplicated elsewhere in America. 

The Festival, the Evanston Music Club, 
Miss Kinsolving's Morning Musicales, the 
Alumni Association, and the Artist's Series of 
the School of Music have all brought to Evan- 
ston a long list of famous artists. Notable 
private teachers, some of whom have country- 
wide reputations, have most materially aided 
the musical development of our community. 
Evanston churches have been the nurseries for 
many a young organist or singer who has since 
become far-famed. Their choirs vie with the 
best in Chicago or any other metropolis. 

Evanston also has its composers, the most 
noted of whom is Professor Arne Oldberg. 
Twice has he won prizes from the Federation of 
Musical Clubs, on the last occasion conducting 
his own symphony at the biennial meeting of 
the Federation at Los Angeles, California, last 
June. He is the only American composer 
whose works appear year after year on the 
program of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. 
Evanston certainly has much that it well may 
be proud of in a musical way but it sadly needs 
a suitable concert hall for ordinary occasions 
and a worthy building for its school of music. 



[27] 




WISE SAWS FROM OUKDOMINIE'S SERMON 




By David Hugh Jones, D.D. 



Almost every day brings a surprise and with 
the surprise a promise of something greater to 
follow. 

It is pleasant to speculate about the future; 
it will be more so to witness its unfolding and 
better still to have a share in its achievements. 

As a rule, ambition and opportunity are 
proportional, and in this land of ours about the 
only person who has no chance is the person 
who has no aim. 

To underestimate one's capabilities will 
prove in the long run more mischievous than 
to overrate them. Conceit is likely to accom- 
plish what cowardice will not attempt. 

Doubt and fear are serious disadvantages, 
faith and courage are powerful assets. 

Education is a good deal more than mere 
information. 

Death is easy, life is hard; stagnation is 
simple, progress is difficult. 

No virtue grows wild, no excellence springs 
up of itself. 

The dynamic of human progress is the divine 
energy. 

To the wise and good of every land God has 
spoken — - spoken in their own tongues. 

Sum up the lesson which the long experience 
of the race teaches and it comes to this: 
strength through struggle, power through 
strife, patience through endurance, perfection 
through pain. 

It is the Gethsemanes, the Golgothas of life, 
that have given the world its poets, its prophets, 
and its redeemers. 

Take out of literature the pathos of the 
struggle, out of art the shading of pain, out of 
music the tremolo of anguish and the echo of 
falling tears, and how much of their beauty and 
power would be lost. 

Hero worship tends to hero making. 

To test a man's blood, to prove the stuff of 
his nature, let him rise in the world and see how 
he behaves toward the comrades of his humbler 
days. 

What does the church of our generation 
need ? Men of valor as well as virtue, men of 
courage as well as conviction, positive and 
aggressive men who will not hesitate to speak 
and are not afraid to act. 

There are women still in the world who serve 
to make men strong and steadfast, women who 



nerve and tone men to meet the difficulties 
and to stand the strain of life, women who are 
to men a constant inspiration to brave and 
high endeavor. 

Christianity came into the world as a little 
child and unto time's end of such is the King- 
dom of heaven. 

The key to the problem of the New Testa- 
ment miracles is the personality of Christ. 

Three things are indispensable to success of 
any source: a mark, a method, and a motive. 

Memory is a faculty which may be de- 
veloped; forgetting is an art which may be 
cultivated. 

A vacant brain becomes the haunt of ghosts 
and goblins; the active intellect a shrine where 
angels meet. 

Heredity puts into a man's hands the 
potentialities of personality, the raw material 
of character. 

Strange things would happen if men and 
women quarreled as much with their heathen- 
ish habits as they do with the doctrines of their 
faith. 

When Christianity painted its divinity with 
tears on His face, and blood about His brow, 
in that moment its capture and conquest of the 
world was assured. 

Life is a graded school — and the task 
assigned is ever on the level of the grade — 
adjusted to the attainments of the scholar. 

There are pearls in common-looking shells, 
and many a jewel has been, found in the most 
unlikely places. 

Some of the pioneers of civilization came out 
of the college of hardship and some of the high 
priests of religion were consecrated with their 
own blood. 

In all great music there is a minor chord and 
in all great poetry there is a sound of tears. 

In the same block of marble lie the possi- 
bility of a' cherub and a fiend and out of the 
same lump of clay may be wrought vessels of 
honor and dishonor. 

Insincerity and hypocrisy are worse in the 
pulpit than in the pew. Sin in the suburbs is 
worse than sin in the slums. Sabbath break- 
ing on the golf links is worse than Sabbath 
breaking in the alleys. 

Truth is divine and eternal; creeds and con- 
fessions are human and temporal. 



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By Beatrice Green Morris 



A high building, common as its surroundings, 
an old frame cottage, rather out of plumb, near 
a noisy corner where street cars clang and rumble 
on a street paved with granite and serving as a 
playground for swarms of boys and girls,— such 
is one's first impression of Christopher House. 

The dull gray building, designed for a store, 
has two flats above and on the street level two 
show windows with a door between, through 
which we enter the kindergarten and main 
assembly room of the settlement. It is a nar- 
row room about forty feet long, and the only 
real light in it comes from the door and win- 
dows in front. The children's circle and piano 
are well toward the back to keep them away 
from the draughty door. After our eyes 
have become accustomed to the gloom we look 
at the kindergarten children many of whom are 
foreign born. Most of them look healthful and 
happy, a few excite our sympathy by their 
drawn faces, but they are all intent on learning 
the little songs and games. The strain upon 
one's heartstrings grows almost unbearable as 
we gaze from face to face of these little ones 
and think that perhaps this dark and dreary 
room with its impossibilities for comfort or 
adornment is perhaps typical of their chance 
in life; a child, like a flower, seeks sunlight and 
who knows how dark are the walls around the 
children of the city streets? 

But the summons to the second floor comes 
and we are ushered up a long straight flight 
of stairs to another large room, the office; the 
rugs, furniture and good pictures here were 
chosen by our dear Mrs. Boyd ten years ago. 
At the back is a dining room (used for classes, 
however), which boasts of a bay window giving 
light but no prospect; at the back are pantries 
and small kitchen. One glance at the latter is 
sufficient to show that it might be vastly more 
adequate for the classes in domestic science 
which are trained there. 

The top floor is reached after another long 
climb which excites our sympathy for the knees 
of those who climb them daily! This floor, 
comprising a sitting-room a few small bed- 
rooms, a rather grimy dining-room and 
kitchen are "all the comforts of a home" to 
those noble women who are devoting their 
lives to the building up of the homes of the 
people about them. Last year Miss Edmonds 
alone saved forty homes by her work in the 



court of Domestic Relations; the husbands and 
fathers being compelled to support their 
families instead of the saloons. 

From this third floor we are conducted down 
some outside back stairs to the so-called 
"gymnasium." It is well hidden from the 
street, and it is well that it is hidden, for while 
it leans like the tower of Pisa it lacks its 
picturesqueness. It was once a small barn 
but now is barely a shelter for small boys' in- 
door games. Christopher House has a great 
baseball team in summer but cannot hold the 
young men in winter because no winter 
athletics are possible there. 

We are then led back to the little cottage. 
On the lower floor some of our Evanston girls 
are passing out the books of the circulating 
library in a room eight by ten feet, so dark and 
poorly ventilated that we leave with added 
respect for the Christian fortitude of those 
girls. At times the line of applicants for books 
numbers one hundred a day. 

The upper floor is devoted to the creche for 
the little children and babies, whose mothers 
leave them here while working during the day- 
time. They are bathed and fed and put to 
sleep in little white iron beds by a nurse and 
her assistant. Three small rooms, one of 
which is a kitchen, on some days contain 
forty babies and the nurse is obliged to put as 
many as four in one bed. 

Christopher House was so named by Dr. 
Boyd, who founded it and dreamed that we, 
his people, might "bear Christ," as the name 
signifies, to the people of that congested district 
of Chicago, even as good St. Christopher bore one 
across the raging river and found on reaching 
the farther shore the Christ-child in his arms. 

Our eyes tell us that these rented buildings 
never could be adapted to the needs of the 
forty-five or more classes which work there, and 
they certainly never were designed to promote 
social intercourse or neighborliness among 
these people whose homes are so limited and 
whose greatest need is some place to go to for 
wholesome recreation and sympathy. Chris- 
topher House has a possible parish of thirty 
thousand souls! 

May God bless our labors in "Cranford 
Village" and grant us from the proceeds a sub- 
stantial fund towards a new and suitable home 
for our settlement work there. 



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By Irene G. Wheelock 



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c5am Feci- bo- dy Pea-bo-dv Peo-bo-dv 



This is what the white-throated sparrow 
whistles to our New England cousins; but 
just across the border in Canada he sings 
"De-ar Canada, Canada, Canada" — while 
in the North Carolina mountains he calls 
"Sweet Miss Marjorie, Marjorie, Marjorie." 
It was down there in the Blue Ridge country 
that a small boy asked me, "What's that yere 
bird what keeps a-hollerin', 'O Pa: I'll be 
good: I'll be good: I'll be good.'" 

This particular bird song is a melody to 
which one unconsciously fits words as to the 
robin's gay "Cheer up" or the bluebird's 
tender "Tru-a-ly tru-a-ly" or the vireo's 
"You see me? You hear me? You know it?" 
or the ovenbird's call of "Teacher, teacher, 
teacher," or the brown thrasher's "Plant it 
deep, cover it up, cover it up!" But as to 
setting down the notes themselves according 
to melodic scale, — well, to me that is always 
a failure. It is the elusive quality of tone 
rather than the intervals of the scale that 
renders it so impossible to record by any human 
laws of music. 

In fact it is this quality of tone more than 
anything by which we recognize the particular 
singer. For instance, compare the high, clear 
notes of the oriole with the carol of the robin. 
The oriole, whistling carelessly as he hunts 
for food, makes his music a side issue and his 
tone is brilliant but cold; the robin, oblivious 
to all else, sings for the pure joy of it as 
perched on the high tree top he pours out his 
soul in music. His appeal is emotional, never 
intellectual like that of the oriole; his tones are 
full, rich, tender, and although he has twenty- 
five different notes you never mistake his voice. 
If you have never heard his "sotto voce" 
cradle song uttered with closed bill you have 
missed much. 

It is true, the songs and call notes of some 
wild birds are so simple, so pure of tone, and so 



slowly delivered as to be easily imitated by any 
one who can whistle. One may even deceive 
the bird himself into an answering note, and 
coax him from his leafy hiding place into the 
range of the photographer. The writer has 
called young waxwings until they lit on her hat 
and shoulders and allowed themselves to be 
caught by the man with the camera. It is 
especially easy to whistle a "Bob White" from 
his cover or entice chickadees, nut hatches, and 
titmice to investigate the queer bird-call so 
like their own and yet so different. But to 
catch a bird song by ear or even to mimic it is 
not to write it, and after all what satisfaction 
would it be to write it? Cold type, whether 
notes on a staff or words on a page, can convey 
but small idea of the ravishing melody that 
comes from a wild bird's throat. 

Whether the birds themselves learn the song 
of their species by imitation or inheritance 
may never be fully determined. Probably 
both are factors to be reckoned with in study- 
ing the result. No one who has heard a young 
bird "practicing" over and over the phrases 
he hears his father sing can doubt that imita- 
tion plays a large part; but a young cardinal 
grosbeak which I brought from the South 
when it was a week old never heard the song 
of its kind, was surrounded by English spar- 
rows and robins, yet developed the charac- 
teristic, unmistakable cardinal's whistle with 
all its phrases. On the other hand a blue-jay 
brought up in my aviary mimicked domestic 
sounds and never developed the true blue-jay 
call. 

Year after year on Sheridan Road, Ev- 
anston, near the Northwestern University 
observatory there was a most remarkable 
meadow lark who for a long time fooled us 
into believing that a Kentucky cardinal 
had come to live among us, so perfectly 
did he whistle the cardinal's glorious song. 



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Tone, accent, and delivery were faultless 
and it was only after watching him sing 
not thirty feet away that we reluctantly con- 
ceded him to be a meadow lark. Now how and 
where had he learned the cardinal's whistle? 
My theory is that he was one of a belated 
brood, hatching too late in the year to hear 
the song of his kind; but migrating southward 
for the winter, his learning-to-sing days were 
spent in the land of the cardinals. To hear 
was to imitate. Hard at first it must have been 
for his little meadow-lark throat but he cer- 
tainly attained perfect mastery of the mar- 
velous melody. Lucky meadow lark! After 
his second season he added to his repertoire 
the familiar meadow-lark whistle and used the 



two songs indiscriminately, but never combined 
them. These are but three examples from the 
many that might be given and there are al- 
most endless individual variations. 

We recognize the powers of mimicry pos- 
sessed by the "mocking bird," the thrasher, 
and that clown of the woods, the yellow- 
breasted chat; but it is a talent or an ambition 
common to most species of song bird in a 
greater or less degree. I have heard a cat- 
bird try to imitate the marvelous antiphonal 
singing of a wood thrush, and seem to realize 
the grotesqueness of the result, for every effort 
ended with an impatient jerk of the tail and 
harsh "Miaow" as much as to say, "Shucks: 
what a dunce I am!" 



By Louise Ayers Garnett 



O who could name a baby so 

Exceptional as ours? 
A Girl, too, with a copper mane, 

And eyes like gentian flowers. 

If she had a been a boy, or twins, 
A name were quickly found, 

For tags for boys and pairs of girls 
Will more than go around. 

But when there's just one precious Girl, 
And copper-crowned at that, 

'Tis plain to see the obstacles 
Are fearful to combat. 

Our friends despise us for our sloth 
And, putting forth their claims, 

With unremitting industry 
Suggest all kinds of names. 

The children in the neighborhood 

Decide it as they please 
And out of compliment to me 

Salute her as Louise. 

Her father favors Patience for 

His mother; as for me 
I'd call her Sallie after mine, 

But mother won't agree. 

Eugenia for her father would 

Resolve the situation, 
But he declares two Genes would make 

A trying complication. 

Her brother likes Louise the best, 

With Dorothy next choice. 
As he controls a voting third 

We gravely heed his voice. 



For grandpapa and uncle we 
Would gladly call her Gwynn, 

But two small cousins own it and 
We'd doubtless raise a din. 

There's Shelley, Daphne, Cynthia, 

Rowena, Jane and Joan, 
Roxana and Penelope, 

Patricia and lone, 

Raptura and Ecstatica, 

Serena and Romaine, 
Tranquilla and Hepatica, 

Phyllida and Lorraine. 

In fact, names overcrowd the earth 
As sweethearts swarm a fair, 

But 0, there's but one Girl for us 
With copper-colored hair! 

Some day, when we make up our minds, 
How stale the hours will seem 

Without our long discussions on 
The all-absorbing theme! 

Just now, when people ask us, "Have 

You named the baby yet?" 
We say, "Of course! How does it come 

You haven't heard? Garnett." 

We've given her the family name 

But when she's fully grown 
She's quite at liberty to change 

And choose one of her own." 

Yes, laugh at us, if you so wish, 
Let fall your jests in showers, 

But there's no name half good enough 
For such a Girl as ours. 



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By Lucy Fitch Perkins 



Once upon a time when the world was quite 
young a farmer and his wife lived together in 
a little cottage in the country. 

They had no children, but they lived very 
well with a cat and a dog for company, and 
an old horse which they used to drive to town. 
They also had a faithful goose which laid an 
egg every morning before breakfast, in a nest 
in the poultry house. 

When the farmer rose in the morning he 
would go the very first thing to the poultry 
house to get the egg. Then he would take it 
to his wife and she would make an omelet for 
breakfast. 

One morning when the old man went to get 
the egg, there was no egg there. He did not 
know what to make of it. "I think a weasel 
must have stolen it," he said to his wife. 

That morning they had no omelet. The next 
morning the same thing happened. The third 
morning when he found no egg, the farmer 
and his wife agreed that the old goose must 
have hidden the nest. 

"We must hunt until we find it," said the 
wife, "for going without breakfasts is making 
me hungry and cross." 

So they hunted and hunted for the nest. 
They looked under the poultry house, and 
beside the wood-pile, and in the hay-loft. 
But there was no nest in any of these places. 
They hunted in the garden and in the front 
yard by the lilac bush — but they could not 
find it. Finally they went down to the straw- 
rick, on the edge of the salt meadow, and felt 
all around it. On the north side of the rick 
the old woman put her hand on three hard 
lumps under the straw. 

"Peter, Peter," she called to the old man, 
"come quick!" 

The old man came, and when they had 
pushed aside the straw there lay three eggs of 
shining gold ! 

"Well-a-day! Who ever saw the like of 
that!" cried the old woman. 

"It's magic, if you want my opinion," said 
the farmer. "The old goose is bewitched." 

"A very good kind of magic, then," said 
the wife. "We will take the eggs to town and 
show them to the goldsmith. If they really 
are gold we will buy a great many things at 
the shops." 

She put the eggs into her apron and ran 



back to the house as fast as she could go. 
She put on her best bonnet and her cloak with 
the yellow lining, while the old man got the 
horse ready, and very soon they were on the 
road to town, the old woman holding tight to 
the eggs in her apron. 

They found the goldsmith sitting tipped 
back in his chair beside his shop door. 

The old woman opened her apron. 

When the goldsmith saw the eggs of shining 
gold he was so surprised that he fell right over 
backward, chair and all. 

"Wherever did you find such eggs as those?" 
he said when he was right side up again. 

"Our old goose laid them," said the farmer 
and his wife, both together. 

"Magic!" said the goldsmith. 

"So I say," said the old man. 

"Are they really gold?" said the old woman. 

The goldsmith examined them very care- 
fully. At last he said: "They are certainly 
pure gold." 

Then he weighed them and gave them coins 
in exchange. 

The old farmer and his wife hurried away 
to the shops, leaving the goldsmith with his 
eyes almost popping out of his head with 
surprise. 

They bought a silk dress and a new bonnet 
for the wife. They bought a fine new suit of 
clothes for the old man, and silver buckles for 
his shoes. And they bought all sorts of good 
things to eat. 

The whole town turned out to see them, for 
the goldsmith did nothing all day long but 
tell the story of the golden eggs to every 
passer-by. 

At night when they reached home, the old 
woman cooked a fine supper. They had 
fresh meat and rice seasoned with onion. 
They had green peppers and fruit, and a large 
cake which they had bought at the baker's. 
They ate sitting one on each side of their 
kitchen table, with their fine clothes on. 

"Now we know how it feels to be rich," 
they said. 

You may be sure they kept careful watch of 
the old goose. Each day they took away the 
egg as soon as it was laid. Each day they 
bought more things with the gold, and each 
night thought of nothing but what they would 
buy the next day. 



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But as they grew richer, they grew more 
and more greedy and quite, quite proud. 

At last one day the farmer said to his wife: 

"Nancy, the old goose must be full of gold. 
Who knows but she may have diamonds and 
precious stones in her too? If we could get 
it all at once we could build a fine cottage and 
live better than any of our neighbors, without 
working at all! This getting a little each day 
is not to my taste. I should like enough gold 
all at once to last for the rest of my life." 

His wife thought this would be very fine 
indeed. 

So the next morning when the old goose went 
to the straw-rick by the salt meadow, the old 
man followed with an axe. 

As soon as her golden egg was laid, he 
seized and killed the old goose. 

He took the body to the kitchen, and there 
he and his wife eagerly opened it, expecting to 
find her stuffed with gold and jewels. Instead 
they found that she was made just like all 
other geese, and that in their greed they had 
cut off" the source of all their wealth — they 
had killed the goose that laid the golden egg. 



So they had to go back to their old way of 
living, only instead of a golden egg each 
morning they got nothing at all — not even 
an omelet! 



By Anna M. Scott 

When you see a twinkling star 
High in heaven above you, 

Just merry winks those twinkles are 
That mean, "My child, I love you.' 

When a lilting lark you hear 
High in heaven above you, 

The song he sings is for your ear, 
'Tis this, "My child, I love you." 

And when you feel a good-night kiss 
As mother bends above you, 

Like star and lark she too means this, 
"My little one, I love you." 



By Ellen Lee Wyman 



It was the day before Christmas, and every- 
body was more than busy. You know how 
busy that is, for you have memories of such 
days. Mother was flying about like a big 
mother-bird with a big new brood in the nest; 
Father was in and out attending to all sorts 
of things. Martha and Wilhelmina, or 
"Billie" as everyone called her, were hopping 
about like two young birds, Martha like a 
dove in her quiet way, and Billie like a robin 
redbreast, never still, cocking her head on 
one side, asking more questions than a cate- 
chism, or "kittie-chasm" as she called it. 

Elsie had just cleaned the fireplace in the 
sun parlor ready to put in the Christmas logs, 
and Billie was standing between the bright 
andirons peering up the chimney until the 
tip of her little nose was all sooty. 

"Yes, Martha," she cried, "I can see the 
hole. It goes up to the sky all right, and 
Santa Claus can come clear down fru, but my 
sakes, he'll get dirty!" 

"No, he won't," replied Martha demurely, 
stooping to look up the dark hole. "He is 
one of the story-people that slip through 
cracks, fly through the air, whisper in the trees, 
and do just as they please." 



"Like a bird?" asked Billie. 

"Well, something, — not exactly— you know 
— story-people — the elves, brownies, fairies — 
they live in books and come out to visit us. 
The sandman is one, and Santa Claus is the 
king of them all." 

"Y-e-s," said Billie vaguely, "but I like 
birds best 'cause I can feel them. Will they 
have a Christmas tree? Will Santa Claus 
come to them? They are awful good." 

Martha laughed at the idea suggested by 
Billie's question, and exclaimed: 

"Let us be the animal Santa Claus and fix 
them a tree." 

"All right, let's. There's Kathleen, she'll 
help too!" 

Now you must know that Martha and Billie 
lived away out west where the sunshine makes 
the days so bright that people forget it is 
winter until the nights come with a chill that 
makes a cozy fire very comfortable. Once in 
a while the snow comes, just a flurry, and for 
a few days the hills and the woods are dazzling 
in their white coat, which is quickly stripped 
off" by a warm wind. 

This is a grand country for the little birds. 
Here they can stay all the year and do not 



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have to move or change as they do in so many- 
places. 

Martha and Billie were very fond of the 
birds, and had a large circle of friends among 
them, the little Finches being especially 
intimate. They came to the door and the 
windows every morning for the good crumb 
lunches which were scattered for them. They 
always seemed to know when a storm was 
coming, and at such times would gather in 
whole families and flocks for the treat. 

At this Christmas there had been a little 
fall of snow, so the girls knew their little 
feathered guests would gather, and they had 
a busy time of their own all day getting ready 
for them and all the animals they could think of. 

They scattered corn and nuts over the lawn 
for the squirrels and gophers; they tied big 
bunches of hay for the cow and the goats. 
They decorated a basket of special titbits for 
the chickens, and pasted gay stickers on bones 
for the dogs, and promised puss a big saucer 
of cream. They made gay little baskets filled 
with crumbs and seeds, and hung them on the 
bushes and low branches for the birds. 

What a wonderful Christmas morning they 
had — a gay big party of their little friends on 
the trees outside the big sun porch, and a gay, 
happy party about their own beautiful tree 
inside, opposite the big fireplace. 

Such a picture as it all was! Can you see 
it? The tree was lighted with dozens of tiny 
electric bulbs of different colors which could 
all be turned on and off with a single turn. 
There were loads of presents for everybody, 
and such a grand time all the morning that 
the family could hardly break up to get ready 
for the big Christmas dinner at Grandpa's. 

As they all started away from the house, 
Papa said: 

"It is so warm we will leave the porch- 
windows open until we come home." So off 
they went, never thinking anyone would come 
in while they were gone. 

Well, they had such a big party of relations, 
such a delicious dinner, such a good time 
altogether that they did not reach home until 
after dark. There had been another snow 
flurry, and it was quite cold. 

After they had taken off their wraps Martha 
and Billie wanted another view of their own tree 
before going to bed, so they ran out to the porch 
door. As they opened it they heard a strange 
rustling sound in the dark that made them feel 
as though there were something alive in the cor- 
ner. Running back to their father and mother, 
their eyes big with wonder, Billie exclaimed : 

"There is something the matter out there; 
I heard a noise." 



"Oh, I guess not," said the father, who 
wanted the children not to be afraid of any- 
thing. "It is probably only the wind rattling 
some paper. Run back, turn on the light and 
see. There is no danger." 

So they bravely went back, opened the door, 
turned the button that instantly set the whole 
tree alight — "Wheel whirr! whizz! whirr- rr!" 
Out from the branches, peeping, calling, 
sputtering with fright, fluttered and flew the 
whole family of finches and their cousins and 
all their relations who had come for a Christ- 
mas party of their own, and had settled in 
the branches of the cozy tree for the night. 

Well you can imagine what a surprise party 
it was all around. The birds flew to all parts 
of the room, bumping their heads, striking their 
wings — too dazed to see where they were. 
Billie shouted in gleeful delight. The father 
and mother came hurrying to see what all the 
commotion was. 

"It's a pity to drive them out into the cold 
night," said the father. So they told the 
party to stay, and bidding the little guests a 
"sweet good night," turned out the lights, 
shut the door, and soon all was quiet. 

Waking early the next morning, the little 
girls peeped through the porch windows just 
as the birdies were beginning to stir. They 
flew about a little and then found their way 
out the windows and were off. 

Later they came back to breakfast, and 
Martha and Billie were sure they peeped — 

"Thank you, thank you! We'll come 
again; so ho!" 



JV puzzle 



I am composed of five syllables: 
My ist is a part of the human body. 
My 2d, the name of a river in Italy. 
My 3d, the name of a cooking utensil. 
My 4th, a verb. 
My 5th, a pronoun. 

My whole the name of an animal found in 
the Nile. 



My ist is the first in a kind of good sauce we 

all like at Thanksgiving time. 
My 2d, a car, a joke for you all, but found in 

almost every clime. 
My 3d and my 4th are a very small town, a 

hamlet, a bit of a place. 

And my whole you can see if you just look 
around, its name on this page you will face. 



[34] 



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^tterarg Jfete 



By Adelaide Boyden McCullough 

"Except a living man, there is nothing more 
wonderful than a book"; they bring to us the 
men and women of long ago, with all their 
loves and hopes and fears poignant as those 
of to-day. They charm away our cares and 
multiply our joys, speak to us, amuse us, teach 
us, and may we never be without them. 
Among the late books we want to first com- 
mend the "Little House on the Marne"; it 
holds a charm past all description. An 
American woman, Miss Mildred Aldrich, is 
the author; and it is written in a series of letters 
covering a period of three months, during her 
residence in Huiry, on the "Marne," where 
she had retired to the peaceful hamlet for 
calm and quiet — when into her beautiful 
calm comes the crash of gun and cannon, and 
the battle of the "Marne" is on. The story is 
told in such an exquisitely simple style you feel 
the beauty of the earth and sky, and the horror 
of the battle seems a jar; and while you know 
the waters of God's beautiful river run crimson 
with the blood of His creatures, maimed and 
killed by man's mistake, over it all the peace to 
come seems brooding; and while you read 
with breathless interest you feel with the little 
hostess of the house that, out of it all peace 
must return, and the charm of her home nest 
be as it was before. 

The most notable American biography for 
several years, and of great interest to the Amer- 
ican reader, is the recently issued "Life and 
Letters of John Hay," embracing the political 
life of our nation from Lincoln to Roosevelt. 
It is written by Roscoe Thayer; and he has 
made exceptional use of the quantity of in- 
teresting material at his command. 

Among the American novelists' contributions 
Hopkinson Smith's "Felix O'Day," and Willa 
Sibert Cather's "Song of the Lark" are, while 
widely different, distinctively American and 
most readable. Hopkinson Smith's picture is 
of an alienated English couple's trials and 
adventures in old New York and the final 
happy conclusion, aided materially by various 
entertaining characters, all typical of the gifted 
author, whom we all love. We regret that this 
is the last story from his genial pen. 

The "Song of the Lark" is a story strong in 
purpose, vibrant with the pulsating personality 



of genius and temperament. The story of a 
Western girl with a wonderful voice, who gives 
up all for ambition — or shall we name it that, 
when the desire comes to give to the world the 
best God had given her instead of being a 
"home-keeping heart" in a life made up of small 
but really vital things? The "finis" is not all 
"rosy"; but what real "finis" ever is? 

From England we have H. G. Well's "Re- 
search Magnificent," a notable novel, crown- 
ing evidence of the author's versatility, and the 
characterization of a man who sacrificed all for 
an ideal. The critics differ widely in their 
criticisms of Well's last book; some praise, some 
blame, but while they do we are enjoying a 
most unusually entertaining story. 

From Sweden we have Selma Lagerlof's 
"Jerusalem," a wonderful story of a pilgrim- 
age, religious, made by a group of peasants of 
her home province. 



l&tmn&tan public |Eibra:r|j 

Some recent fiction at the library 
By Mary B. Lindsay and Nancy Corse 

Sawyer, Ruth. The Primrose Ring. It is well for even 
the oldest and wisest of us occasionally to wander back 
into fairyland, and let it give us back again the heart of 
a child which we may have lost somewhere along the 
road of " Growing-Old-and-Wise." The words quoted 
are from Ruth Sawyer's preface to "The Primrose Ring" 
— not a child's book, but a love story, whose author has 
"let Fancy and a fairy or two slip in between the covers." 

Deland, Margaret. Around Old Chester. In these six 
new tales many of the well-known Chester folk reappear. 

Galsworthy, John. The Freelands. A really fine love 
story intertwined with the events of the day. 

Grayson, David. Hempfield. The first novel from the 
pen of the man who has charmed so many readers with 
his little adventures in contented country life. 

Locke, William. Jaffery. A real and most enjoyable 
novel, without a dull page, and each character a per- 
sonality. 

Norris, Kathleen. Story of Julia Page. A story of San 
Francisco dealing with a fine character study in Julia 
Page. 

Parker, Gilbert. Money Master. A Canadian story of 
modern life with a background of old French customs. 

Porter, Gene S. Michael O'Halloran. The story fairly 
radiates sunshine and an exuberant faith in the innate 
goodness of humanity. 

Rinehart, Mary K. " K." Intensely readable from the 
first page to the last. 

Walpole, Horace. Golden Scarecrow. The fact that child- 
hood is not a mere prelude to adult life, but worth while 
for its own sake has seldom been more beautifully 
expressed. 

Ward, Mrs. Humphrey. Eltham House. A swift moving 
story of present-day social and political life in England; 
an intellectual treat. 



[3Sl 



Can you imagine anything more marvelous 
than a dream village; a village of the fancy 
come true? Wonderful and incredible as it 
seems, however, this thing has really happened. 
Cranford has come to life, and if dear old Mrs. 
Gaskell were in Evanston she could walk up 
and down the village street, dip into the tiny 
shops and meet again all of her old friends. 
We are privileged to journey to this quaint, 
little old time English town, for Cranford will 
be on the map at the Country Club on Novem- 
ber fifth and we shall all see Captain Brown and 
Miss Jessie, Doctor Hoggins and Mrs. Jamie- 
son and all the other characters who have 
charmed us so many times with their simple 
living, big hearts, neighborly kindnesses and 
petty gossip. We may meet Mr. Aga Jenkins 
who can tell us such marvelous tales of his 
Indian journeys, and we can tell Miss Matty 
how sorry we are that she did not get the gay 
turban that she loved. It seems particularly 
fitting that Cranford is to furnish us the means 
to make happy our neighbors at Christopher 
House, for don't you remember how generously 
the kindly souls gave of their small store to 
help Miss Matty when her fortune was lost. 
One of our young townsmen, Russell Walcott, 
has produced most successfully the old time 
hamlet and Mrs. Dakin, with all the executive 
ability of a Miss Deborah, has worked out 
elaborate plans to beautify the town, to stock 
the shops, and to give you a cordial welcome 
in Cranford. 

For ten years Christopher House has been 
an active center in a foreign community, main- 
taining many and varied activities, and has 
been a great blessing to many people who need 
what Christopher House has to give in the way 
of ministering to the needs of the people in the 
community. 

The educational work maintained gives to 
the boys in the community classes in manual 
training, carpentering, cobbling, mechanical 
drawing, and other helpful classes, and to the 
girls classes in sewing, cooking, millinery, 
dancing, gymnastics, dramatics, and many 
others classes that are useful and instructive. 
With these activities the social life of the boys 
and girls is also emphasized. 



Also many foreign-speaking men and women 
are learning English and becoming better 
citizens because of the work that is being done 
for them at the settlement. 

Other activities include a well conducted 
kindergarten for the benefit of the children in 
the community who need it, also a day 
nursery where many children receive the best 
of care and training under the direction of a 
trained nurse, while the mothers are at work 
helping to earn the living for the family. 

Religious work forms a very vital activity. 
Regular religious services are held every Sun- 
day and a well organized and well attended 
Sunday school is maintained for the benefit of 
the children in the community. 

The demand for athletics increases constant- 
ly and many boys are benefited by the privilege 
of playing baseball, basket-ball, and other 
indoor and outdoor games. The Boy Scouts 
and Girl Scouts also have their part in the 
activities of the settlement. 

There are other activities that are an impor- 
tant part of the work that is being done among 
them: a splendid library that is circulating 
many helpful books, also the summer outing 
work that is sending many mothers and chil- 
dren out into the country for a much needed 
vacation. 

A large part of the work at Christopher 
House is the neighborhood service which it is 
the privilege of the resident and volunteer 
workers to give. This includes calls on sick, 
needy, and discouraged, responding to emer- 
gency calls, settling family difficulties, securing 
legal advice, and many other kinds of service 
for which there is a constant demand. In 
these and many other ways Christopher House 
is proving the need of its existence not only to 
the five or six thousand who come under its 
definite influence every month, but also to 
those who give of time, service, or money and 
make its existence possible. 



While the editors realize how fully the 
people of Evanston appreciate the Evanston 
Hospital we want to call attention to two 
notable new features of the institution, — its 
laboratory and its X-ray equipment. These 



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departments are second to none in the United 
States and enable the patients to secure 
promptly the best results in chemical analyses, 
X-ray negatives, and fluoroscopic examinations 
that science can give. 

It goes without saying that there is a con- 
stantly increasing number of patients and a 
correspondingly increasing demand for more 
space. No charity cases have been turned away; 
but during the past year, because of lack of 
room, quite a number of patients anxious and 
able to pay have had to be denied admission. 



The Girls' League of Evanston, a non- 
sectarian association, filling the place that 
the Y. W. C. A. does in other cities, is a very 
important factor for good in the industrial life 
of our town. The rooms are comfortably fur- 
nished with easy chairs, lounges, writing desk, 
piano, pianola, victrola, sewing machines, good 
books, magazines, etc. There is a dining-room 
and kitchen at the disposal of members and 
very much put to use by them. 

The rooms are used at all hours, by different 
groups of people, individually and collectively. 
At noon the members who work on Davis 
Street spend the hour allotted them, in cooking 
their luncheons, resting, and playing the 
pianola. In the mornings and afternoons 
people drop into the League for help, of various 
natures. Perhaps they want advice, perhaps 
they want work, perhaps they are hungry, 
occasionally they are all three of these, with no 
place to go. In that event those hungry out- 
of work persons have come to the right place, 
for at the League there is always food, opportu- 
nities to find work, and a place to sleep. 



Again our "City of Homes" has been 
honored. To our already broad educational 
resources, including Northwestern University 
with its many departments, the Evanston 
Township High School, almost one thousand 
strong, and our model public schools, has been 
added "Roycemore," a day school for girls and 
boys. 

The building is most complete and attractive 
and the site chosen for its location is ideal. It 
is near the lake, north of the University and 
opposite a large athletic field where the pupils 
are privileged to enjoy all forms of athletic 
sports. 



Two new clubs have arisen in Evanston, both 
of which make for outdoor life. One, the 
newly formed "Garden Club," has ambitious 
plans for the future, in many of which the 
Evanston public are to share. 

First on their program is the Shakespeare 
garden which they propose to create in co- 
operation with the Drama League of America 
in its Tricentennial Shakespeare celebration 
next June. Prof. C. B. Atwell, representing 
Northwestern University, has promised hearty 
support for this plan. 

The club numbers about forty members, all 
earnest home-loving women of Evanston, who 
desire to make their serious study of garden 
topics benefit their neighbors, as well as 
themselves, — particularly those neighbors who 
suffer most from the high cost of living. 

To this end they have used their influence in 
obtaining for Father Seldhelm, the Polish 
priest, permission from the State government 
to use the land lying along the drainage canal 
west of Evanston for kitchen gardens for his 
parishioners. On this tract the Russian-Poles 
who live in the southwestern part of our city 
have been able to raise vegetables, both for 
their own needs and to sell. This is a very 
practical way to help those who need it and 
well worth the efforts of any club. All honor 
to the Garden Club for this, say we. 

The aim of the club is first, last and fore- 
most "To help everybody to find Health, 
Wealth and Happiness in a garden." 

The other club, calling itself "The Hikers," 
has no organization and no altruistic purpose. 
It is composed of some Evanston women who 
love long walks through country by-ways, in 
fair or stormy weather and its slogan is the 
following song by Thomas Tinker. 



When the cares of earth oppress you, 
When the ills of life distress you, 
When futilities impress you, 
Walk it off! 

When the future's grave and graver, 
When the past has lost its savor, 
When the present finds no favor, 
Walk it off! 

That's the sport that legs were made for, 
That's the purpose roads were laid for, 
Well or ill, in debt or paid for, 
Walk it off! 



[371 



The Book of Cranford 



V 



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The horrible conflict across the waters has 
plunged all thinking people into serious con- 
templation which finds expression in various 
ways. 

Some thirty of our fellow-townsmen, among 
whom is his Honor the Mayor, aroused to the 
realization of their ignorance of technical war- 
fare, have spent their vacation in the Military 
Training Camp at Fort Sheridan. 

The object of the camp was to instill into the 
minds of American men the necessity for early 
military training and to give to those deprived 
of such training an opportunity to see the 
actual workings of military life. 

On the other hand several of our talented 
women have joined the army of war poets. I 
quote below two poems which come from the 
pens of our own contributors. 

"(SforitsBtmt J^tmi pelgae" 

By Helen Crew 

See how great Julius Caesar's hand hath writ 

Of a young nation struggling to arise. 

Long centuries pass; still, while she bleeds 

- and dies, 
His judgment stands. Time dims no word 
of it. 

— The Outlook, January 27, 1915. 

Wqz prager of ih,c Rations 

By Anna Jane Harnwell 

"Great God, lend us Thine aid!" 
The Slav cries in his might; 
Then forth upon the battle field 
His children go to fight. 

"Great God, lend us Thine aid!" 
The Frank lifts up his voice; 
And countless legions forward go, 
Nor dream of other choice. 

"Great God, lend us Thine aid!" 
The Saxon calls in prayer; 
Then goes to fight with smiling lips, 
Feeling his God goes there. 

"Great God, lend us Thine aid!" 
The sturdy Teuton calls; 
It is his slogan when he fights, 
His prayer when he falls. 

Then speaks God from His throne: 
"I do not heed your cry; 
Ye all implore the God of War, 
The Prince of Peace am I!" 
— New York Times Magazine, July 25, 1915. 




present 

In the Style of Godty's Magazine and Lady's Book 

By A. Mantua Maker 
The two great necessities of humanity are 
food and raiment. If the requisitions of strict 
necessity alone were 
considered the matter 
would be easily settled, 
but in consequence of 
our passion for making 
complex what was 
simple, new necessities 
of toilet and table have 
been created and re- 
course has been had to 
the products of every 
region of the earth to 
gain these. 

r Adam never knew 
what it was to taste a 
pate de foie gras. Eve's 
first dress was of green leaves. How vast has 
been woman's progress from that day to the 
invention of the court train! Vestment has 
ceased to be the subject of consideration and its 
place has been occupied by decoration. 

To regulate, however, all the diversities and 
perversities of individual taste a new power has 
arisen variable as the April cloud, fugitive as 
the wind. Its name is Fashion. It was this 
despot which decreed the huge ruffs, long, 
straight stomachers, puff sleeves, and stiff 
voluminous skirts of Elizabeth's reign. 

It was Fashion, which in the early part of 
the eighteenth century forced all females to 
encumber themselves with hoops of enormous 
size and at the commencement of the nine- 
teenth century to wear soft muslin gowns of 
almost classic lines. 

Now once more following its whim we are 
encasing ourselves in cages of steel or whale- 
bone. A generation of matrons is succeeding 
one of nymphs. Plaids, checks and bars in 
cashmeres, merinos, and poplins are very good. 
In the fashion plate we see a walking dress 
of palest drab cashmere, an entirely new cos- 
tume. The skirt is composed of gored 
breadths, made to fit the form without plaits. 
The front of the dress is in a single piece, 
narrow at the waist. This is ornamented by 
narrow folds of the same, tacked on with three 
rather large silk buttons, the same color as the 
dress. A small cape reaches a little below the 
shoulder. Sleeves tight and plain. A rich 
India scarf is thrown carelessly around the 
form. 



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©tjtt-ffijaf of fomforn $fflage 



A. W. S. 



All shops will be closed during performances, 
both Friday evening at 8:15 and Saturday 
afternoon at 2 o'clock. 

Every gentleman is invited to call on charm- 
ing Postmistress Mary and her assistants at 
the Post Office. 

Have you ever eaten Bara Brith, Welsh 
bread? You can buy it and try it at the 
Muffin Shop, and take home the recipe trans- 
lated by Dr. Jones. 

The Goose is waiting for the children. Feed 
her a dime and she will lay a golden egg, or 
something just as nice. 

STOP AND SHOP at the "Shop of the 
Housekeeper's Delight." Aprons, fancy 
and plain; maid's aprons; and the novelty of 
the season: the pretty flowered garden aprons 
for service among the flower beds. Ironing 
boards to travel with you, and kitchen utility 
boards to leave at home, and warm comforters, 
and everything else imaginable. If you don't 
see what you want, ask for it. They are sure 
to have it. 

Will you stay for supper? Make your 
reservation early. Supper 75c. 

Don't forget to call at the Post Office. 
There is a package for you. Charges 25c. 

Ice cream for the children on Saturday 
afternoon. 

Call at the Children's Bazaar early. A 
limited number of Cranford babies to be dis- 
posed of. Everything for babies at prices 
ranging from 35c up; and right here may be 
found baby's dolly and dolly babies; grown-up 
dollies with their fashionable furs, hats, boudoir 
caps, and negligees. Call and inspect our 
Parisian models. 

Dr. Dakin will be allowed the use of his 
telephone after November 6th. 

The children are especially invited to the 
Gift Shop. There will be found, for 50c and 
less, lovely things for Christmas presents; all 
tied up and directed, if you wish, and they 
promise to keep all secrets. 

Sweet Lavender for sale. 

When you are tired, seek rest in Cranford 
Tea Garden. Bring your friend, and among 
the beautiful hollyhocks enjoy afternoon tea 
with its accompanying buttered bread and 
marmalade, tarts, and pound cake, all for 25 
cents. 



Christmas cards and stationery, new fiction, 
which is first class but second hand, will be 
sold by our Westminster Guild. 

You are invited to a musical evening in the 
Honorable Mrs. Jameison's drawing-room. 

We hope some time our young bachelor 
architect, Mr. Russell Walcott, may design a 
home of his own as successfully as he has our 
village. 

Any future playwright in search of knowledge 
of the Arts of the Stage will do well to consult 
Mrs. John W. Meaker whose artistic produc- 
tions excel even Signor Brunoni's magic. 

Sandwiches and coffee in the Tea Garden by 
the light of the moon after performance. 

We've always learned in Mother Goose lore 
that "Tom, Tom, the Piper's son, stole a pig 
and away he run," but such was really not the 
case. Come to Cranford at 2 p. m. Saturday, 
November 6th, and find out the real truth of 
the matter. A pleasant play for people from 
seven to seventy, written by Alice C. D. Riley, 
will be presented by a cast which will outcast 
all other companies. 

Be sure and visit The Novelty Shop, a land- 
mark in our village, as the home of our much 
admired artist, Mistress Dakin. 

If you have anything of public importance 
to communicate consult Mrs. Ball as to the 
best way to present it. 

Mistress Webster, formerly of Hubbard 
Woods, but now of Cranford Village, has con- 
tributed much to the artistic success of this 
gala occasion. 

Admittance to the village will be 25c. No 
extra charge for performances. 

(UJajlumjujm. VumS, 0Mj.'%1tuL " faxKTWiA-' 
kAj^f&jcmji^s> " for My 




(IfN/tAJtlJu^ 



~&MtS!P& (viMfih~ 



[39] 



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Our National Banks are peculiarly for the service 
of the people. They are incorporated under the 
banking laws of the United States — and are subject 
to direct Federal supervision. 

We invite you to open an account of $1.00 or more 
in our Savings Department — receive all the protection 
afforded by the Federal Banking Laws — and interest 
at 3 per cent per annum. 

Savings Department Open Mondays Until 6 p. m. 

THE NATIONAL CITY BANK 

OF CHICAGO 



S. E. Corner 
Dearborn and Monroe 

Streets 



"J3e a AStional GiiySov&r' 



David R. Forgan, 
President 



Have You Seen 

Our New 

Store? 

Corner Michigan Boulevard 
and Washington Street 

For Fifty Years 
Chicago's Leading Grocers 



Engraving 
Announcement 



All goods in our Gold, Silver, 
Leather and Stationery departments 
to be marked, if ordered now, 
will be held for Christmas delivery. 

No extra charge for engraving 



CHARLES E. GRAVES & 
COMPANY 

Jewelers and Silversmiths 
Madison and Wabash CHICAGO 



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a n ford Village 



The Corn Exchange National Bank 

OF CHICAGO 



Capital 

Surplus and Profits 



OFFICERS 

Ernest A. Hamill, President 
Charles L. Hutchinson, Vice-Pres. 
Chauncey J. Blair, Vice-President 
D. A. Moulton, Vice-President 
B. C. Sammons, Vice-President 
Frank W. Smith, Secretary 
J. Edward Maass, Cashier 
James G. Wakefield, Asst. Cashier 
Lewis E. Gary, Asst. Cashier 
Edward F. Schoeneck, Asst. Cashier 




$3,000,000 
6,500,000 

DIRECTORS 

Charles H. Wacker 
Martin A. Ryerson 
Chauncey J. Blair 
Edward B. Butler 
Charles H. Hulburd 
Benjamin Carpenter 
Clyde M. Can- 
Watson F. Blair 
Charles L. Hutchinson 
Edward A. Shedd 
Ernest A. Hamill 



Foreign Exchange 

Letters of Credit Cable Transfers 

Savings Department 



NORTHWESTERN GARAGE 

Sherland & Williams 

Distributors for 
The Hudson and Overland Cars 
Also the Scripps- Booth Car 

Cars sold on deferred payments. If you buy 
an automobile of Sherland & Williams you 
derive the benefit of their service department 
in Evanston. 



Telephones, 275 and 276 1624 Maple Avenue 



The Book of Cranford Villa 

First Presbyterian Church 

Evanston 

REV. DAVID HUGH JONES, D. D., Minister 

The First Presbyterian Division of the Evanston 
Section of the association of people whose pur- 
pose is to secure for themselves and all mankind 
the greatest moral and spiritual benefits which 
may come from right thinking and right living. 

If you are not identified with any other organi- 
zation of Christian workers, "Come with us and 
we will do you good." 

Strangers will be attractively seated if in attend- 
ance promptly at 11 o'clock each Sunday morn- 
ing or at 7:45 in the evening. 



Prayer service every Wednesday evening 
at 8 o'clock 



This Space Donated 



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Fill 



ROYAL PORCELAIN ENAMELED IRON TOPS 

Made for Kitchen Ta- 
bles or Cabinets. Sizes: 
27 n x40" and 25 n x41^" 
Top alone - - $4. 00 
Table complete 7.85 

ROYAL 

En ameling and 

Manufacturing Co. 

326 West Madison St. 

CHICAGO 




'Piersen Clothes are being worn by 
Evanston's most exclusive dressers 

JOSEPH F. PIERSEN 

619 Davis Street Telephone 287 




RE yo Murdoch & compaN y 

AR K STREET BBI° G 

CHICAGO 



The Book of Cranfo-rd Village 




State Bank of Evanston 

Oldest and Largest on the North Shore 

This bank invites you to make every 
use of its complete facilities and assures you 
efficient, confidential and courteous attention 
to any business you may entrust to it. 



Resources over three and one-half millions 



FISCHER BROS. 



HATS AND GOWNS MADE TO ORDER 

HEMSTITCHING AND PLEATING PROMPTLY DONE 

'hone 1797 527 Main St., Evanston, 111. 



SlKl 


mpooing, Hair Dressing, Manicuring, Facial Treatments, 
Marcel Waving Electrolysis 
TELEPHONE 967 




ANDERSON 


INSTITUTE 




Hoyburn Bldg 


, Evanston, 111. 


Ha 


i Goods, Creams and Lotions 
of Our Own Manufacture 


Hot Oil and Electric Scalp 
Treatments a Specialty 




THEOBOLD'S 



program 



Friday Evening at 8:15 O'Clock 
"AN EVENING IN CRANFORD, 1827" 

Arranged by Mrs. Raymond Cook 

Persons in the Play in the Order of Their Speaking 

Miss Pole Miss Gertrude Cleveland 

Mary Smith Miss Adelaide Neilson 

Mrs. Forrester Miss Ruth Hypes 

Miss Matty Miss Dorothy Thoman 

Betty Barker Jane Frederick Kinney 

Jessie Brown Miss Louise Kimbark 

The Hon. Mrs. Jamieson . . Mrs. John W. Douglass 
Peter Marmaduke Arley Jenkyns, her Grandson 

Master Hal Dewar 

Captain Brown Mr. Elias Bredin 

Lady Glenmire Miss Claire Livingston 

Mr. Hoggins Mr. Burton Thatcher 

MUSICAL SELECTIONS 
Piano, "Maiden's Prayer" . Miss Adelaide Neilson 

Song, "'T is the Last Rose of Summer" 

. . . . Master Hal Dewar 

Song, with violin obligato, "Meet Me by Moonlight 

Alone" . Mr. Elias Bredin 

Duet, "Whispering Hope" . { }£■ g^f C1 -eland 

Dance, "Varsovienne" . . {^feS*'* 
Duet, "Oh! That We Two Were Maying" .... 

Miss Ruth Hypes and Mr. Elias Bredin 
Song, " 'T was Within a Mile of Edinboro Town" . 

Miss Claire Livingston 

Song, " Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes" 

Mr. Burton Thatcher 

Song, "Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young 

Charms" Mr. Elias Bredin 

Duet, "Oh Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast" .... 

. Miss Claire Livingston and Mr. Burton Thatcher 
Minuet — 

Miss Louise Kimbark Miss Lucile Howard 

Miss Margaret Childs Miss Nancy Palmer 

Miss Dorothy Pank Miss Helen Walrath 

Miss Camille Rolland Miss Marguerite Pank 

Accompanist, Miss Adelaide Neilson 

Violinist, Miss Edna Macdonald 
Stage Director, Mr. Henry C. Tilden 
The musical portion of the program has been under the 
direction of Prof. G. E. Grant-Schaefer of Northwestern 
University. 

Committee on Arrangements 
Mrs. Raymond Cook 
Mrs. John W. Meaker 
Miss Lois Wilder 



Saturday Afternoon at 3:00 O'Clock 
"TOM PIPER AND THE PIG" 

A Farce in Two Acts 
By Alice C. D. Riley 

Written for Cranford Village) 

Mrs. John G. Houston at the Piano 
Miss Edna Macdonald, Violinist 

Cast of Characters 

Tom Piper . James Macdonald 

Polly Flinders Elizabeth Lee 

Dame Flinders (mother of Polly) . . . Helen Williams 
The Piper (father of Tom) .... Meredith Beyers 

Old King Cole William Parkes 

Knave of Hearts Russell Vinnedge 

Peddler Mr. Henry Tilden 

Mother Goose Katherine Moore 

Clerk of the Court Melvin Hambaugh 

MOTHER GOOSE'S CHILDREN 

Miss Muffit Betty Cook 

Bo Peep Mary Elizabeth Couch 

Simple Simon Walter Dow 

Dr. Foster Henry Noble 

Mary Contrary Katherine Buchannan 

Red Riding Hood Gwendolen Jones 

Mother Hubbard Theresa Reed 

Mr. Jack Sprat Sherman Armour 

Mrs. Jack Sprat Mary Valentine 

Heralds to King Cole < i, , , T 

s \ Sheldon Lee 

MAYPOLE DANCE 

Virginia- Phillips Mary Tilden 

Mary Dawes Barbara Cook 

Eleanor Griffin Alice Fuller 

Margaret Lee Eleanor Roberts 

Elsa Hall Mary Claire Eastman 

Suzanne Lewis Helen Baird 

COMMITTEE 

Mrs. John H. S. Lee 
Mrs. Irwin Reed Mrs. Lucius Fuller 

Mrs. Ira Couch Mrs. R. W. McKinnon 

Mrs. Henry Tilden Mrs. H. W. Griswold 



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